Touched
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Post S6. God cleans up the mess. Or, so they assume. Four years later, Dean feels a small hand grab his own and looks down to see a child's bright blue eyes. Eyes he recognizes.
1. THEN

**Disclaimer for ALL chapters of the story**: I do not own _Supernatural_ or any of the characters in the universe. I'm borrowing them for fun, not profit. All kudos and copyrights remain with Kripke.

**Spoilers:** For the entire series, but especially for season 6's finale. I mean it—turn back _now_ if you don't know what happened in season 6.

**Full Summary:** Post Season 6. It was God who finished him, God who cleaned up the mess, or at least that's what the Winchesters thought when Castiel was suddenly… gone. Four years later, though, a small boy grabs hold of Dean's hand and stares up at the hunter with bright blue eyes. Dean knows those eyes: "Cas?" What does it mean? And why is there a demon coming for them? A demon they've never met before, one who knows their names, one who wants them dead, one who is bent on revenge. . .

**A/N:** I realize this is going to be a "what if" story, AU, by the time season 7 starts in the Fall, unless I secretly have a psychic connection with the writers. The idea for this story grabbed me about twenty minutes after watching "The Man Who Knew Too Much" (the finale), and refused to let go. I'm sorry if it's been done before, but I hope you enjoy the ride. The title of the story is based on the Vast song "Touched"—give it a listen if you have time.

I know this is just a short prologue, but it might be a few days before you get chapter 1. Just thought I'd share what I'd already written.

* * *

**_Touched_**

**_By Slinky_and_the_BloodyWands_**

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three. ~William Blake_

* * *

**THEN**

* * *

This was never the way it was meant to be. This path was an untraveled one. Or so the rest of the world had been telling them. Warning them. For the Winchesters and one Bobby Singer, though, this was familiar territory.

Evil rises. Evil falls. They sweep away the aftermath, salt and burn the remains. Like good little hunters. Didn't matter if it was an impending apocalypse or a spook having a bad decade, jobs were meant to be finished.

Just another day, another season. Winter into Spring. And, somehow, they were still standing.

But there was a problem with this ending. They hadn't caused it. They hadn't finished the job. Not on their own. Maybe never on their own.

Dean ran a hand over the undercarriage of his baby, wincing when he thought of the sleek black paint of the roof against the scraping earth. The windows were blown, the body beat to shit, but he could fix her. He'd done so before, and he'd do so again. The Impala would stay alive so long as at least one Winchester still had breath in his body.

Breath._ Breathing_. Dean could hear Sam's. It was comforting, even if it was strained. Sam was beside him. In a split second choice, little brother followed big brother's movement, fingertips tracing the trail across the warm metal. Sam loved her as much as Dean, because of Dean.

Bobby's boots crunched the pavement. Words rolled around his lips, looking like chewed cud. Finally, he seemed to work up the strength to actually open his mouth.

"Guess you boys wouldn't listen if I told you there wasn't enough of her to salvage."

There was a faint smile in Dean's eyes. "He doesn't mean it, baby," he forced, staring at the upside-down frame.

Bobby snorted. "Didn't think so."

Sam stayed quiet. Dean figured his brother would be that way for a while. Stuck in his thoughts. Out of instinct, Dean moved his hand back off the car and onto Sam's elbow, leaving it there, as if it would keep the taller man balanced. Keep his body balanced, at the very least. His mind was another matter. Dean knew he should look up at him, make sure Sam really was as 'OK' as he'd said he was the last dozen times he'd been asked. But Dean didn't have the strength for it.

"Sam," Dean managed. Damn it if he wasn't going to ask just once more.

Breathing, more breathing. It turned into sighing. "Dean, just… there's other things we should be talking about. My memories can wait another minute."

Sam had a point. As if in acknowledgement of that fact, Bobby and Dean both turned their heads to look back. There should be a building there. A large one. There should be bodies. Blood. Splattered Raphael. There should be…

There was nothing, though.

Land barren, trees lain down. It looked as if a tornado had come through and taken everything, foundation included.

"What the hell happened back there?" Sam asked. Because he was the only one amongst them who'd dare to, not because any of them had an answer.

Dean wanted to snap at him, but one look into his cloudy gaze and he thought that maybe his brother's mind was too scrambled to really take it all in. That maybe Sam thought Bobby or Dean might actually have a real answer for him.

"God." Dean almost coughed on the name. He was surprised by his own reply. "I think it was God."

Bobby didn't refute it, but he did narrow his eyes and turn to face the eldest Winchester. Dean could practically hear his thoughts: _"Which one?"_

"The real one, I mean," Dean said.

Sam. Sam suffering. Sam screaming inside himself. Sam reliving punishment after punishment every time he closed his eyes to blink. Yeah, that Sam, managed to give_ Dean_ a look of pity. Dean shook his head when he noticed it. Some things didn't change.

Sam bit his lip, "Then Cas is…"

"Looks like Dad was pretty pissed." Dean tried to make it sound light, but he winced at his own choice of words.

Because no frickin part of this was fair, or loving, or divine.

God didn't show when they need him to. He stayed in the nosebleed section, watching the game from afar when the heavy hitters were about to go Apocalyptic. He didn't drop them a line when his favorite kids started killing themselves off, started making all the wrong moves, started getting chatty with demons. Dean knew he should have felt his anger for God increase tenfold. He should have been cussing the guy a bluestreak for letting it get this far, but all Dean felt was…thankful.

Because he didn't have to be the one to end it. He didn't have to find a way to make the world right again. He didn't have to kill his best friend.

When the other two stayed quiet, Dean raised a brow. "How else do you explain it?"

One minute, they'd been inside, hearing the words leave Castiel's mouth. The blasphemy, the insanity, fueled from the madness of the monster souls of Purgatory: Castiel calling himself God. Almighty. To be loved. To be worshiped.

The lord and savior of all.

Every word of it had stung their ears. Each man had told himself this was a nightmare. Wait it out. They'd awaken soon, they'd thought, and they'd find themselves perched over a book with all the answers inside. But it was real. And Castiel was gone to them.

Then, in the twinkling of an eye, he was gone to all.

Sam, Dean, and Bobby had found themselves lying on a grass carpet, their eyes still wide open, no time lost to them. But the building was gone, the angel gone, even as his words were ringing in their ears. The last thing they'd seen had been Castiel's eyes widening slightly, as if he'd suddenly sensed something foreign in his new realm. Those blue eyes, cocky with power, had been alit with fear in that split second.

"He's really…?" Sam stumbled over the words. He reached up, pitching the bridge of his nose. "How can we be sure? Who can we ask?"

Dean shrugged, exhaustion making his words heavier. He rolled his eyes to hide the wetness there. "It's over, Sam. Just let it go."

"Let it go?"

Dean felt his heart clenching. It was too familiar, the pain of loss. "Cas is dead, Sam." Then, because he felt he had to, "The end." _Thank God._


	2. Chapter 1: What is Seen

A/N: I'm glad everyone is enjoying it so far. Now, onward to the "four years later"(well, actually, nearly five years, but who's counting) portion of the tale…

* * *

**NOW**

* * *

**Chapter 1: What is Seen**

* * *

The silhouette of the church was dark against the bright coral sunset. Nondenominational, unornamented, it was a simple rectangular building with a high ceiling and a slick metal cross above its sign. No high steeples or archways, no black suits and collars. Ageless steel, the walls could have been raised a month ago or a decade past. Those small details eased the tension in the car, if only slightly. Dean frowned, leaning back into the leather of the seat and staring out the windshield at the open and welcoming double doors.

The sound of modern praise, happy beats and repetition, echoed out faintly. Laughter followed. Dean's annoyance grew.

"And the guy couldn't just send it through the mail?" he asked. Not for the first time.

Sam hid his smile with one hand, pretending to study his phone. His brother's history with churches wasn't a good one, but Dean's unease was, at least, amusing. Sam wasn't sure why he didn't feel the same. He should have, he knew. He should have had a deep distaste for all things religious by this point… but Sam couldn't quite bring himself to hate it all. Especially when it was so much fun to watch Dean squirm.

"We were already passing through the area, Dean. Plus, it's a favor for Bobby. We owe him."

That last bit was enough to seal the deal. Dean grunted, begrudging agreeing that the tiny community of Frog Pond wasn't out of the way. And that they did owe Bobby. When didn't they? So if the old hunter wanted them to pick up a package from a friend, so be it.

Dean snorted. "We're not the frickin' postal service."

But his hand was already on the handle. He pushed himself out. Sam followed the move, the Impala groaning as it lost the weight of the two men. The sound of the vehicles speeding past on the four-lane in front of the building was a steady hum, but the music coming from inside was somehow louder.

"What, are they having choir practice or something?" Dean muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes, pointing out a banner with his thumb. "Bible school."

Dean groaned so that he could hide his fluster at not seeing the bright orange and green sign. Sam cracking another joke about him going blind in his old age just wouldn't do.

"Awesome," Dean voiced.

"Welcome Winchesters!"

The brothers came to a quick, tense stop, but their muscles loosened up when they saw the source of the sound. A man was turning the corner, carrying a stack of pizzas. He was younger than Sam, his blond hair parted to one side and his smile bright. Sweat stained the collar of his lavender button-up.

"Glad to see you could make it," he continued in a faint Southern accent. "Mr. Singer told me to keep an eye out for that car of yours. She sure ain't hard to spot."

Dean raised a brow. "Brother Matthews?"

"The one and… well, probably not the only." He chuckled and shifted his weight. "Say, can one of you give me a hand?"

Dean didn't move. Sam shot his brother a quick glance before swooping in to lift the top four boxes off the young preacher's arms. "Sorry, um, we were expecting someone a little…"

"Older?" Brother Matthews didn't seem to take any offense. He shrugged and tilted his head toward the double doors. "Gotta get this food into the children before they start a riot—last year they missed s'mores night and the hymnals suffered greatly. But I've got what you need in my office—Mr. Singer said you two would probably be in a hurry to get on the road again."

Not true exactly. Their last job was dust in the wind, but Dean didn't have a problem with white lies. "Big hurry," Dean agreed, nodding along.

"That's too bad. We would have loved to have the two of you at service this week." Brother Matthews' smile grew somewhat wistful, completely ignorant of the panicked expressions that crossed the brothers' faces. "I'm sure gentlemen of your profession rarely get a chance for traditional worship. But one can praise the lord with his good deeds. And from what I've heard, the two of you do great things."

Dean followed behind the preacher. "What did Bobby tell you, exactly?"

"Not a big talker, Mr. Singer, but he knew my papa." Brother Matthews looked over his shoulder and gave Dean a wink. "Let's just say I'm familiar with the job, if only from an outsider's perspective."

Sam took a shallow breath when he stepped through the threshold. He didn't want to think about why it felt wrong, so, instead, he played the role of keen observer, staring at a table that had been stacked with gifts for an upcoming marriage. He looked past the packages, past a stack of pamphlets, and through the next set of doors that led into the sanctuary. The front few pews were filled with children in matching t-shirts. Most of them were giggling as they attempted to duplicate hand signs and sing along with recorded number. A man and woman team was enthusiastically swaying before the kids, each holding up a yarn-haired, lip-syncing puppet.

Sam could practically hear a joke about hands up asses. He elbowed Dean before his big brother had a chance to say anything aloud. Dean was the picture of innocence. "What?" he mouthed in mock surprise. Sam simply shook his head in warning.

"They're about to dismiss after they eat." Brother Matthews was grinning at the group of children, unaware of the exchange going on behind him. His fingers tightened on the boxes. "We can drop these off in the fellowship hall and get to business."

"Sounds good. Say, maybe we can work in a deal for a slice of pepperoni—or garden lovers for my bro," Dean said. Mr. Mature. Sam rolled his eyes.

Brother Matthews chuckled. "That can be arranged… Uh-oh, looks like we lost our chance for an escape."

Both brothers froze, puzzled, until they heard the loud roar of a stampede coming from the pews. Dean had seen ghouls less excited about their meals. He braced himself as the children flooded out the doors and straight into their pastor, circling him excitedly. Muttering about politeness and servings, Matthews was pushed along by the crowd of ravenous pigmies. Puppet Master #1 gave Sam a polite smile and took the boxes out of his hands, herding the kids and her partner down the long hallway. The ring of their high-pitched voices was more deafening than Metallica at full volume.

Dean raised a brow. "Think Matthews'll escape with all his limbs?"

"Looks like pizza night is dangerous," Sam agreed, cleaning the steady hum out his ear with one pinky.

"See, Sammy, this is why we didn't send you to Vacation Bible School growin' up."

The laugh burst out of Sam before he could stop it. "Sure, yeah, Dean. That's the reason."

Sam shook his head, still chuckling, and stepped away, following the disappearing crowd in search of the preacher. Dean smirked, secretly pleased with himself for not being a bigger ass. He could save the puppet jokes for later.

The hand that caught his was a surprise. It stilled him completely, leaving him alert. His instinct was to deliver a blow, but he stopped himself, only just, and turned his gaze downward.

The boy was standing to one side, his body still partly hidden by the open door. His arm was outreached, small, soft fingers digging into Dean's palm. The top of the child's dark head of hair barely reached the man's thigh.

Dean heard Sam's footsteps come to a sudden stop. He knew his brother was returning and could guess at the confused expression upon Sam's face. But Dean didn't see any of that, couldn't, because his eyes refused to lift from the child's round face.

The boy was quiet, but he cocked his head in study of the man he'd latched on to. When he straightened, his gaze became more intense, more pleading. Dean wasn't sure when he'd taken to one knee, but he had. His free hand snaked out, grabbing the child by the shoulder, holding him into place as if he might suddenly disappear.

"Dean, what's…" Sam's voice trailed off.

Dean shook his head, telling himself _no_. This wasn't… Couldn't be. _Shouldn't_ be.

But the eyes meeting his were wide, childlike, and as bright blue as a Kansas sky. They were eyes Dean would always be able to recognize. Dean Winchester never forgot his family. _Never. _And he certain wouldn't forget steady, inquiring gaze of the man who'd pulled him out of Hell.

Dean could feel his quick pulse on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed, leaning forward, unblinking.

"Cas?"

* * *

The office air was stale, thick, as if the dust off the shelved tomes had lifted into a cloud that was currently hanging over them. Sam felt as if he were choking on it. He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his back hunched slightly, head hanging. After a moment, he regained himself and sat up straight again, pushing air out of his lungs.

"Are you sure, Dean?"

Dean was buzzing beside him. Energy rolled off of him in waves. White-strained fingers gripped the leather arm of the chair, the other hand wiping at pale lips. Dean stared at Brother Matthews' empty desk a moment longer, trailing the open Bible facing away from them. Then he turned, blinked, and looked at Sam as if he'd suggested that they repaint the Impala purple.

"Of course I'm sure," Dean snapped. "Damn it, Sammy, did you even look at him? That kid—that kid is…"

When he didn't finish the sentence, Sam picked up. "Castiel? Our Castiel?"

"You know another Castiel, genius?" Dean rubbed his jaw again, leaning into the movement. "Shit, Sam. . . How is this even possible?"

Sam tilted his head, frowning. "I think we both know that answer, Dean."

"After what he did?" Dean winced at the memory. "I have a hard time believing it. Do you think he did it himself? To himself?"

Sam was happy he didn't have to answer that question. The door behind them opened, Brother Matthews stepping inside, his face tight.

"Cassidy is fairly upset." Brother Matthews didn't meet their eyes until he found his seat behind the desk. "Miss Maggie is sitting with him, but he won't even look at her. Do either of you gentlemen care to tell me what you did to that little boy?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Did to him? We didn't do jack, buddy—that kid isn't…" Dean paused, licking his bottom lip, and looked away.

Sam scooted forward, his voice lower. "Actually, Brother Matthews, my brother thinks he knows the boy."

Matthews nodded. "I assumed as much—after all, he called him by name. Cas—that's what the other children call little Cassidy." The preacher's face paled slightly. "This… this isn't something to do with your work, is it? If this has anything to do with someone in my congregation, I need to know."

Sam looked to his brother but Dean didn't pitch in. "We're not sure yet, but I don't think anyone in the church is in danger. It just… could you tell us a little more about Cassidy?"

Brother Matthews hesitated a moment before nodding. "I've known Cassidy his whole life. He's been coming to this church since the week he came home from the hospital. He was a premature baby, a tiny thing. The ladies passed him around like he was the most precious creature they'd ever seen."

"Let me guess." Dean's voice was raw. "That was about four years ago, give or take?"

"Yes. His grandmother brought him to us—he lives with her, Mrs. Pearl Grayson." Brother Matthews stared down at his clasped hands. "I'm afraid Cassidy's mother isn't with us. She was a troubled young woman, only seventeen. Fell into the wrong crowd, experimented with drugs. She didn't even recall who Cassidy's father was. Unfortunately, she couldn't shake her addiction, even after she knew she was pregnant. As you might imagine, it caused some complications during the birth. Cassidy survived, but she did not."

Sam smiled slightly, encouraging Matthews to go on. "Tell me what Cassidy is like."

Dean seemed to perk up at the request. He sat up straighter, pulling his hand away from his face.

Brother Matthews shrugged his shoulders. "He has his problems, but don't all children?"

"Problems?" Dean asked, wary.

"Pearl doesn't see it, of course, but the youth minister has pointed out his behavior on a number of occasions. She believes Cassidy might be autistic or suffering from another mental disorder. It's not uncommon in children who were born from addicts."

Sam could see the doubt in the man and he latched on to it. "You're not so sure?"

Brother Matthews frowned. "Cassidy is quiet. Introverted. But I don't think he has a communicative problem. He seems to understand those around him perfectly…" He paused. "I think he's simply special. Like all of God's children."

"The package."

Brother Matthews looked startled by the sudden request. When he didn't immediately reply, Dean stood, holding a hand out impatiently.

"The package Bobby wanted us to pick up—hand it over," Dean snapped.

Sam shot him a look. "Dean…"

"Shut up, Sammy." Dean leaned forward, snatching a thick envelope from the preacher's hands. "Thanks—if you don't mind, we'll be on our way now."

But it wasn't a request for permission, and Dean was already turned around, grabbing for the door knob. Sam scrambled to follow him.

Matthews jumped to his feet. "But Cassidy—is there something in my church?"

Dean froze but didn't look back. "You've got nothin' to worry about, _padre_. Little _Cassidy_ is just a normal kid. Like you said."

Sam watched his brother disappear and hesitated in the doorway, torn. He dipped his head with an apology and followed, ignoring the question Brother Matthews belted out from behind the closed door: _"But how do you know the boy?"_

Because, honestly, Sam wasn't sure how to answer.

* * *

"Dean, we can't do this. We can't just leave him behind."

The Impala slung gravel into the air as it crossed into the four-lane, barely gaining enough power to not get rear-ended by the semi barreling over the black-top behind them. At this speed, the church would be out of sight, if not out of mind, within seconds. Which seemed to be the point of the near death experience. A long, angry horn sounded when the tractor-trailer passed the car.

"The hell we can't," Dean bit.

Sam released his tight hold on the dashboard, and shot his brother a glance. It was a rare occasion that Dean Winchester was willing to risk his baby just to get out of dodge. Especially from a four-year-old.

"He recognized you, Dean." Sam shook his head. "Cas recognized you. He knows what he is, has to. You remember what Anna said, about being born after her fall…"

Dean winced. Both brothers knew history was history and all things Anna was of the ancient variety. But that didn't mean that they had forgotten any part of their time with her…or running from her.

"She was only two when she started remembered what she was, Dean."

Dean shot him a side-ways glare that clearly said, "As if I needed reminding." But when Dean opened his mouth, his voice was unusually calm, a clear contradiction to his actions. "She said her father hated her. Had nightmares. I know, Sammy, I spent more time with her than you did." Dean lowered his brow. "And that's exactly why I'm doing this."

"Explain it to me then." Sam's hand slipped into his jacket pocket, ready to retrieve the cell phone, knowing that he should tell Bobby. Force Bobby to talk some sense into his brother. "Tell me why we're running away."

Dean's shoulders stiffened. "That's not what we're doing, Sam, and you know it."

Growling at the inconvenience, he pulled the Impala off the road, hissing when he ran over a piece of worn rubber shrapnel. When she eased to a stop, he put her in park and turned to Sam. "Anna had dreams, sure. She remembered little bits and pieces, but her parents got her help and she put all that behind her. Hell, Sam, if the angels hadn't started gathering around the water cooler to gossip about the two of us, she'd never have heard them. Anna would have stayed put. She'd be a graduate, married with her two-point-five bundles of joy to look forward to. She'd be normal, all that angel shit put behind her."

Sam was quiet. He looked out the windshield, staring at the pitch black night. Normal. All these years and the word normal was still spoken with the same bitter reverence.

"We don't know that for sure."

"Cas screwed us over good a few years back, Sammy. I get that. It's hard to forget." Dean stopped, as if considering his own words. "But, before that, he was our…friend. He did a lot of good things. Saved us. If he has a chance to just live like every other slob on this globe, than I say we let him have it. Let the kid be a kid."

Sam lifted his head, studying his brother's profile. "So that's that?"

"Yeah."

"We just pretend like he's still dead?"

Dean pulled the car back onto the highway. "Castiel is dead, Sammy. And that kid, Cassidy, he'll forget he ever saw us."

Sam shook his head, frustrated, but let the phone fall back into his pocket. "Sure he will." Sam didn't mind telling white lies either.

* * *

End Notes: Hope that didn't bore you—we'll be moving on to the vengeful demon portion of the tale soon enough. So, yeah, the Winchesters are just going to drive off and leave their troubles behind them? Surrrree, that'll happen…Oh, and this is a gen fic, so, sorry, no upcoming Destiel… Seriously, this is a kid!Cas fic—homey don't play that. And free cookie to the person who can remember where "homey don't play that" comes from.


	3. Chapter 2: Slow Burn

A/N: Wow, thanks for the responses, everyone—and, yes, I was referring to Homey the Clown from _In Living Color _(cookies to all who guessed it right). Made a little banner type thing on Deviantart for this story—the link to my profile/gallery is at the bottom of my author's page. I really do appreciate the feedback. This story is also serving as my post-finale therapy, as a few of you mentioned. Profound bonding, ahoy ;)

* * *

**Chapter 2: Slow Burn**

* * *

The diner was nested against a wall of cut limestone, as a long, oddly shaped building hiding in the shadow of the rock. To the side of its parking lot, a thirty second drive up a paved incline led to a motel twice its size with almost matching architecture. The effect made them appear as if the two businesses were giant steps stacked atop one another. But it wasn't their placement but the two signs shining brightly in the night, both red, which caught the eyes of the Impala's two owners: "Vacancy" and "24 Hour." The Winchesters were drawn in like moths to a flame.

"I dunno, Sam, I think she likes you," Dean smirked. He found a good grip on his cheeseburger and met it half way, humming in satisfaction when he ripped into it. A tear of mustard ran down his chin. "Seriously, you should get her number, dude."

Sam glared at his brother. The expression was nothing compared to the one the "her" in question was currently sending their direction. Long since over the hill, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn, the waitress narrowed her blue-lined eyes and huffed before she turned back to top-off another customer's cup of coffee. Sam felt the heat rise to his face. Honestly, if his order hadn't been wrong, he wouldn't have needed to have sent it back three times.

"The salad dressing was gross," Sam muttered.

Dean was still chuckling. Not because it was all that funny, but because it had sent Sam a hundred and eighty degrees. Or so he thought.

"And would you quit trying to change the subject?" Sam snapped.

Dean sobered up with a shrug, realizing he wasn't going to get off that lucky. "Sam, there are other jobs."

Sam stabbed a lettuce roll. "Dean, we're already here. Come on, it's less than forty minutes away. It won't hurt to check it out in the morning."

Dean was staring at his plate. "Forty minutes in the wrong direction," he replied.

Wrong direction. Sam snorted. The only thing wrong about it was that the location was just south of the church they'd left. And the child they'd left. Dean could feel the thought rolling off his brother like perspiration. So he kept his gaze down.

"Plus, I got a text message this afternoon. Dani and Louise are going to be heading through this county in about two days if the salt 'n' burn in Troy goes as planned." Dean shrugged. "Let the newbs take care of it. Hell, they need the chance to cut their teeth on some witchcraft."

But Sam had taken advantage of Dean's downcast gaze and slid the I-Pad across the table. It was a newer model, thinner. Frickin' delicate looking. And it made Dean roll his eyes. He remembered the first time Sam had talked him into the new toy—there had went their damned dragon's gold… But Dean cleared his throat, unable to stop himself from reading the news article across the screen. A note at the top said it had been updated only twenty minutes ago with new details. Which explained why Sam had his panties in an even bigger twist.

Messy death. Occult symbols. Satan worshiping teenager as a victim. Maybe the article didn't say as much but it had all the right wording, just like small town journalists loved to use when something juicy happened locally. Ah, and there was the bingo: the teen's place of death didn't quite match the place where he'd been found, but both areas had been covered in symbols.

"I've been sifting through some blogs. One local kid said the body was found in his neighborhood and that the news wasn't reporting everything." Sam left the statement dangling until Dean looked up, unable to hold back his interest. "Bloody shoeprints. Apparently, the teen who died, Bradley Upchurch, walked the three miles to the new location."

Dean raised a brow. "So, he was injured and booked it until he fell over dead?"

"That's the thing." Sam smiled. "Bradley was eviscerated at the first crime scene. Kinda hard to get a workout when you leave your running shoes and a few organs back home."

"Unless you've got help. Think Bradley summons something?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour, Dean. We need to get a look at the symbols to find out what it was—the 'newbs' don't won't know what they're looking for." Sam sighed. "You know how they are."

He didn't have to finish that thought. Dean remembered well enough how he and his brother had run across the green-at-the-gills hunters a few months ago. Bleeding out while attempting to convert a few ghouls to vegetarianism. Regular multitaskers. Personally, Dean blamed sparkling vampires for that particular brand of stupid. Since then, he and Sam had been sending the two on _softer_ jobs, hoping they wouldn't get themselves killed. Bobby had money on them surviving fourteen months, tops.

Dean swept a napkin over his lips and shrugged. "Alright, maybe we can look into it. But I'm not hanging around here long. Got places to go. Crap to deliver to stubborn old codgers. We'll check out the case in the morning."

Sam smiled, pleased with himself, and popped the lettuce into his mouth. A grimace replaced the grin. "Fine, but we're not eating breakfast here."

* * *

The hot water pounded into his shoulders, but not hard enough to do much good. Brother Aaron Matthews reached up, running his fingers over the back of his neck, trying to work out the kinks. Who knew lugging around first graders and tossing water balloons would be such a workout? Of course, it was like this every year, always more stress than he anticipated, but Vacation Bible School was still a worthwhile experience. If only because he got to see the children smiling every night for a week.

Well, maybe not all of them. Little Cassidy didn't eat pizza with the other kids. And when his grandmother picked him up, he was still wearing that numb expression on his face. As if he were dazed, or sad, or both. But, Brother Matthews knew he'd be better. They were painting tomorrow. A giant tapestry to put in the hallway to the youth classes. Cassidy loved colors, like most four year olds. He'd smile again. It would be a blessing to see.

Matthews grinned to himself, despite the fact that the happiness he felt when he thought of the children always drudged up more insecure thoughts. Like how he'd never have any of his own if Tammy had her way.

_Damn._ He winced, pushing it down. There was anger there, deep inside, more than he knew a preacher should be carrying around, but he couldn't help it. Part of him almost wished he had his watch on, just so he could look at the time, count exactly how many hours late Tammy was getting home. From the office. From the gym. A different excuse for a different day of the week, but always the same smell of men's cologne on her body when she finally crawled home, shamelessly ate the leftovers he'd put the oven, and showered.

He knew exactly where she went. Even if he didn't have it in him to call her on it. While he was leading the kids into another verse of "If You're Happy and You Know It," she was with _him_, doing God knows… Matthews slapped his open palm against the tile to get rid of that image.

The water was already turning cold on him. He smirked. Good. It would be harder for her to wash off the scent tonight.

He stepped out, dripping onto the linoleum. Steam left streams running down the mirror.

He knew what his papa would say about those thoughts. _"That's a one way ticket to the devil, boy."_ The last time the old minister had said that, he'd finished it with a gift. _"But every one of God's knights has a chink in his armor. This'll make sure it don't show so much."_ Papa had pressed the watch into Aaron's hand, told him it was made by a friend, to wear it always.

Aaron had spent so many nights holding it instead of wearing it, running his thumb over the symbol engraved into the bottom. It didn't look very Christian, but Aaron knew what Papa had meant by…

Aaron's breath froze in his chest. The moment of panic hurt, physically hurt.

So many years safe, so many years without Papa's friends coming around, filling his head with warnings. He'd forgotten his Papa's ways, the salts and symbols, the protections. And that realization sent ice down his bare back.

It was four feet away at best, the watch. Just four feet.

Aaron told himself the panic was nothing. It was just some subconscious reaction to seeing the Winchesters earlier today. The visit had drudged up old worries, that was all.

No. No, it wasn't.

Aaron made a dive for the watch, but was blinded in an instant. The smoke was thick, cutting off the light above him, smothering him as it pushed against his skin, threw him to the floor. He slipped and slid, trying to get away. But his lips parted. Fire and sulfur and death poured into him, shoving its way past all his barriers until he was full, bloated with it.

And then Aaron didn't think much of anything.

He rolled his neck, his spine popping slightly with the stretch, and sat up. Fingers wound in and out, flexing. He rolled the tips of them over the skin of his arm, examining the flesh, and sat up. The mirror had lost its foggy sheen. He could see himself.

He moved his head to one side, then the next, taking in his shape. Observing how the muscles of his jaw tensed.

"It'll work," he said. And smiled when he heard his own voice. He tilted his head, glancing at the watch at the end of the counter. Then he chuckled, as if he'd read a joke on the back of it. "It'll work."

He found clothing first, the office second. Tossing aside the Sunday school guides and the sermon notes, his eyes landed on the Church attendance book. She was under members, as he knew she would be. The phone number and address was listed beside her name: Grayson, Pearl. He thought about giving her a call and decided against it. Who didn't like a surprise?

The grin was on Aaron's face, but it wasn't his own.

He ripped the page out of the ledger.

* * *

He'd had this dream before.

Maybe not often over the past few years, but then again, there were always newer nightmares to keep him busy, especially after his time down under. And then after his brother's. Somehow, the nightmares that were the worst, though, were the ones that weren't even his to have.

Dean had thought that before. When he'd had this particular dream. He'd had no memory of this, at least no direct one. Not from the night itself. But Sammy did, he was sure, somewhere deep down. For some reason, Dean didn't feel he had a right to these false memories. Not when there were so many others to choose from. Plenty of monsters. Decades of Hell. So, why this one? Why would this dream ever return?

Stomach sliced open beneath her nightgown, flames flaring out around her pressed body, hiding her face from him. The light off the fire too bright. Blinding. Mom. Mom burning. Again.

But there was something different this time. Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it at first. And then it occurred to him. The angle. The angle was all wrong. He wasn't below her, not like the other times. He was far away, pressed tight against something, hidden. Staring through little slits.

Watching in horror.

"Come out, come out," a voice sang. Masculine, playful.

The man was there, too. There was something different about him, as well. Something off. The body was familiar. One he knew, and it was lounging in one chair, arms crossed over his knees, as if he were waiting for something.

Dean felt his heart racing. He could hear his breaths, shallow. Knew he was trying to keep them quiet.

Because the man _was_ waiting. For him. For him to come out of hiding.

The man didn't turn his way, just stared up, as if studying the woman burning above him. "What do you think, champ? Will this get their attention?" Then his head turned, watching. Knowing. Dean held his fingers over his mouth, quieting his breaths. But the man didn't look away. "I think it will."

Dean's eyes fluttered open. He stumbled back, feeling an arm catch him around the shoulder, holding him upright. That was the first indication that something was wrong. He wasn't in bed. He wasn't having a nightmare.

And his arm was on fire.

Dean bit his cheek to hold back the scream. His knees nearly buckled, but, still, the arm held him up. Sammy's arm. He'd know that touch anywhere. It was the one piece of awareness that slipped past the pain.

Dean groped at his shoulder, following it down, following it to the fire. But there was none, just the sleeve of his shirt. But the pain flared out, right there. Where the hand print had been burned into his flesh.

"Dean, what the hell?"

Sam's hiss was against his neck. The younger man was bent forward, supporting his brother's weight. Dean realized as much and tried to straighten. The pain lessened, easing back to a slow burn. The skin beneath the cloth felt tender, like it had been blistered by the sun.

"Shit, Sammy, this is supposed to be your area," Dean breathed, because frickin' visions were so not _his _deal. He straightened, managing to stay up on his own two feet. He drug his eyes across the hotel lobby. An eight by eight foot square with a counter dividing manager and guest. A man who looked entirely too much like Kenny Rogers' skinny clone, had his back against the key rack and was pressing a phone against his ear, eyes shot wide with worry.

Sammy already had a hand out to stop him. "No really, he's fine—there's no reason to call an ambulance. I'm just going to take him out to the car."

"Thought you were havin' a heart attack," Skinny Kenny muttered. But he sat down the phone.

Dean let Sam push him back through the glass door.

"Dean, what happened back there?" Sam circled in front him to catch his wondering gaze. "You were scared. You looked like someone had just strapped you onto an airplane. And you were in pain, man—I know what you look like when you're in pain."

He said it like Dean was planning to deny it. Which wasn't usually far off base. Dean caught his bottom lip in his teeth, cutting off his initial stream of curses. Because, _damn_, this hadn't been his plan for the evening.

"Sam, get in the car."

"But Dean…"

Dean sped up. He reached the Impala's door before he answered his brother. "Sam—we need to go back. Now." He swallowed. "Get on your computer and see if…" _Damn, damn, what had the preacher said her name was?_ "Grayson. See if Pearl Grayson is listed in the white pages. I need an address."

He slid into the driver's seat, hand shaking when he turned the ignition. Sam had barely shut his door when she lurched back in reverse.

"You mean the grandmother?" Sam already had the screen on his lap. His brow was low, already putting the pieces together. "What if I can't find her?"

Dean eyes still stung from the nightmare. Vision. Whatever-the-hell.

"Then we look for the fire."

"The fire?"

Dean put a hand to his chest, feeling the heart beat. The racing, the racing pulse hadn't been his own. He knew that now.

"Shouldn't be too hard to spot."


	4. Chapter 3: Lost to Flames

A/N: Thanks for the great feedback. I apologize for the grammatical errors/missing words in the past few chapters—I don't always have a chance to revise my chapters like I should. Also, I apologize for my strange updating schedule, but if you could only see the calendar I have for original fiction…well, you'd know where all my writing time goes.

As for the demon player, you'll learn more about him as the story progresses, including his motivations and what he has planned for our favorite characters ;) Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Lost to Flames**

* * *

"_A burnt child fears the fire." ~ old English Proverb_

* * *

The alien heartbeat, the one thumping against his ribcage as fast as a rabbit's, was now gone. At least, he couldn't feel it anymore. And he wasn't sure what that meant.

Was he too late?

"A demon?" Sam clarified. And there was something familiar about the way he desperately reached out, clutching the dashboard to steady himself again. Just like he had earlier in the day. But, this time, they were driving toward the past Dean feared instead of away from it. Sam didn't wait for Dean to answer before he asked his next question, "And the demon started a fire, the same way Yellow-Eyed… The woman was killed the same way as Mom and Jess?"

Dean could barely hear the question for the blood rushing past his ears. He took a curve too quickly, nearly losing control of the wheel. Of course, the address would have been rural. Of course, it would have been in the middle of nowhere. Dean could rule out the cops and firefighters beating them there—_if_ this was actually real, if this wasn't just some sort of messed up delusion. That waitress at the diner had been shifty, after all. She could have drugged him.

No. Dean couldn't make himself believe that, because the feeling, that fresh fear, was familiar. He'd felt it before. But he hadn't understood it until today. Until he saw those blue eyes staring back at him.

"It wasn't the same demon—'cause, you know, dead and shit—but the rest… Yeah, it was someone who knew what happened to our family. Which, Hell, doesn't really rule out many of the big 'n uglies." Dean didn't have to continue. His face was set, stony, and his eyes so trained on his unseen destination that they could have cut through the darkness outside without the aid of the headlights.

"Dean." Sam swallowed, taking a breath, choosing his words. "You said Cas—I mean, Cassidy—you said he was there, too. Hiding." Dean could feel those wide, pleading eyes on his profile, hear the hitch in his brother's voice. It was hard to resist giving him an answer. "Dean, did you see the vision through the _kid's_ point of view?"

Because Dean hadn't told him about the heartbeat, the taste of salty fingers against his lips as he tried to keep himself from breathing too loudly. The bite of the wood panels on his knobby knees. All the feelings that weren't his to feel.

Dean was saved from having to answer when the car passed the woodland. The landscape straightened out into low cropped fields and the Impala hit a dirt and gravel driveway.

At this time of night, the house should have been a black silhouette on a moon-lit background, but there was light shining out through the windows. It was too bright for lamps, too consuming for a fireplace. Smokes sifted through the cracks along the meager structure, the sound of bursting glass, popping plastic, loud, even as they pulled up.

It was tiny, more of a two-roomed cottage than a house, and the placement next to a slab of foundation suggested it had been built on beside a larger house that had long since been leveled. Not too far from the dwelling, a barn towered the home in size, and then in the distance, the looming cylinder shape of a silo with a disheveled bowl top. A dairy farm probably two decades out of use. This was the Grayson family home, or what was left of it.

Dean was out of the car without a word, rounding to the trunk to snatch his saw-ed off from the arsenal. He slipped a bottle of holy water into his jacket. With a moment of hesitation, he pulled free the ragged spare blanket he kept tucked in the corner and tossed it over his shoulder, hoping it would stay in place. It was just big enough provide cover for his head, for any tiny bodies he might have to haul out.

"It could still be in there. The demon."

Sam's voice barely cut through his thoughts, but Dean nodded, recognizing the warning. "Bring the knife," he replied, fully aware that this was probably a trap. Probably intended for the two of them.

And that there probably wasn't anyone left to save inside the house.

Dean's feet didn't seem to care, though, carrying him up the porch stairs. Another _pop_, another_ sizzle,_ as the heat consumed a bigger meal. Dean avoided the front door, seeing the closest window had been busted out, releasing the heat building up inside. He checked for warmth. There was plenty, but the flames had spared this corner of the house thus far. With a breath and a nod to himself, he reached in, unlatching the broken window.

Entering one boot at a time, his gun was trained forward in a sweep as his eyes took in the open area. No life, just flames. And smoke. It was choking him before he even had a chance to put both feet on the living room floor. Dipping low, he waved a hand behind him.

"Watch my back," Dean said. It was an unnecessary statement, and what it really meant was 'stay the hell put.' Dean had his own issues with fire, but Sam's were twice as bad. He didn't need to stare at the open, wild flames dancing along the floral wallpaper. And he definitely didn't need to smell this. It was age and mildew and pig on the pit. Only it wasn't actually pork cooking.

Dean kept his eyes down, away from the ceiling, pretending not to see the pieces, fragments of charcoal cloth and flesh, peeling away from a smoldering skeleton and dropping onto the rug.

The shotgun tight against him, Dean lowered himself further, forcing his stinging eyes to glimpse his surroundings. No demon in the chair. No demon strolling out of the ruined kitchen. Dean squinted, making out a piece of furniture against the far wall. It was a china cabinet, but its bottom doors were tight against the floor and made up of straight slabs, like a wardrobe. Just enough space between them for someone to look through. Just enough space inside for a small body to hide itself.

The house creaked, groaned, cried for help as its structure began to surrender to the assault. Dean ignored the sounds, raising his shirt over his nose to hold back the smoke and rushed beneath the flames at a near-crawl. He palmed his sleeve to protect himself from the metal knob and pulled open the cabinet door.

No heartbeat. No child.

Dean could feel the smoke in his lungs and pretended that was the reason this voice caught in his throat when he muttered a stream of desperate curses.

"Damn it."

Cas wasn't here.

* * *

Aaron Matthews was fit for a preacher, the demon decided, laying one shoulder against the silo's aluminum panels. The body was relaxed, the lean muscles at ease after the heavy lifting, and the creature within couldn't be more pleased at the way the skin fit him like a glove. Almost perfectly. Almost as if was meant to be. Almost as if he'd been born into it.

"_Aaron_," the demon let the name roll around his mouth. Yes, Aaron would work. He could be an Aaron for now. The preacher's voice inside was weak, a fly's buzz in his ear, but it screamed out in hate at the demon's latest thoughts. It was easily ignored.

The newly birthed _Aaron_ tilted his head, watching from his spot as the flames overtook the inside of the small house. The shadows draped over him, hiding him from the owners of the black Impala parked askew a few yards from the front porch.

It would all be too easy to take a step forward, out into the moon light. And hell, the hunters weren't paying attention, he could sneak up on them. Get a good laugh at their wide eyes as their expressions shifted from shock to anger. _Too_ easy.

But now was not the time.

The demon felt the body he was in flush with heat. _Anger._ It felt different when he was without form. Rage had no walls to bounce off of. But here, as Aaron, he could feel satisfaction in his tight jaw, his coiled abdomen, his heavy fists.

And the anger left as quickly as it had come when he saw the defeated hunter pull himself from the flaming house, caught by his giant of a brother. _Aaron_ had known they'd have to come for the child. After all, the Winchesters took care of their family. A delighted smile lit his face.

_Soon_, he assured himself. Not now, but soon. When the time was right. After the Winchesters, and their little fallen angel had learned his name. Learned his purpose. After they'd all suffered. Then he'd end it.

Not now, though. That would be too easy.

* * *

Dean wished he had the ability to reach down his throat and scrub his lungs clean, but there was no time for the whine on the tip of his lips when he stumbled out, hacking violently. Sam caught him, one arm around his waist holding him mostly upright. Dean was aware that his brother was leading the two of them down the steps. He didn't fight the escape.

Dean hadn't meant to leave the house, not yet. He hadn't checked the bedrooms, hadn't checked the bathroom. There were plenty of places for a scared kid to hide. But Dean's feet had led him back to the window for air—_sweet, frickin', precious_ air. And he wasn't sure he had the strength to go back into the furnace.

He closed his eyes, trying to wipe out the ashy grit. There was something there, nudging at the back of his mind. When he looked up, he saw that Sam was alert, body stiff, his demon-killing blade held out and ready. So, he'd felt it too, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Like they were being watched.

"Cas?" Sam asked. He sounded as defeated as Dean felt.

Dean was halfway through a shake of the head when he heard it, a scrape on wood. It was so faint against the sound of the blaze inside that he almost doubted it. Almost, until he felt Sam's arm leaving him.

Brow raised, weapon low and steady, Sam moved to the left, as if walking the distance of the porch. He came to a stop and shot Dean a glance. Though there weren't any words passed between them, his eyes asked the clearest question, "_Did you hear that?"_

_ThumpThumpThump_

Dean didn't answer, and he disregarded the caution his brother was showing, nearly running to meet him.

_ThumpThumpThump_

The heartbeat was racing again. Dean put a hand tight against his chest and found himself calm, steady, in stark contrast to the thud he was feeling on the inside.

He dropped to his knees, gripping the porch's overhang to steady himself, and stared into the darkness. It was a crawl space of nearly three feet in height and stretching out beneath the house, the front blocked off, hiding it from view. But the sides were covered only with graying lattice. And one strip of it had been pulled loose. Dean eased it back, watching the pitch black. It shifted, the light catching a hunched form against a support beam. The glimmer travelled up, reflecting the white of two orbs, eyes.

Dean pulled back, reaching upward. "Flashlight, Sam," he hissed.

And, sure as Hell, his over-prepared little brother had one sticking out the back of his pants. He handed it over without question. The light flooded over the damp, barren earth beneath the house. Dean was slow to trail it back to the figure, afraid of blinding him.

He tried to soften the call, but the smoke left a constant scratch at the back of his throat. "Cas," Dean said, voice husky. "Cassidy, I need you to come to me."

The child was on his knees, holding a hand upward, pressed against the ceiling of wood above his head. His dirty cheeks were streaked with white from tears, his lashes against his lids as he pressed his eyes closed to the men. His pale blue pajamas were just as filthy and clinging to him with sweat. Cassidy's chin shook, as if with effort, and he opened his eyes again, staring over the flashlight beam.

His body relaxed at once, a loud, shallow breath leaving his lips.

"Dean."

Dean thought he'd imagined the call, it was so low and certain. The man reached out, beckoning for the child to take his fingers. "Cassidy, come to me. I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy cocked his head to the side, a little pout at his mouth, but he didn't reply. Not in words. Slowly, his hand pulled away from the wooden planks above him, and Dean caught sight of the blood. It chilled him, seeing it smeared over the child's palm, dripping free onto the dirt at his knees. Dean raised the light, finding where the boy had pressed the injured hand. Above the kid was a circle, drawn in such a deep red that it seemed to blend into the brown splinters around it. There was a squiggling line at the center, a blotch where the bleeding palm had been pressed. It wasn't finished and it wasn't active, but it was easy enough to recognize the attempt.

A sigil.

Dean didn't feel the smile at his lips. It was so bitter, he could almost taste it on his tongue, swirling with the soot. "That's the wrong symbol, champ," he said.

The child didn't answer. Cassidy chewed his bottom lip a moment longer before standing onto unsteady bare feet, his body folded forward so he wouldn't rake his head. Dean pulled back from the opening when he felt the slick hand grab hold of his fingers. Cassidy followed him out, but didn't release him.

Sam let out a heavy breath and fell into a squat. "Hey, buddy," he tried, testing the words. He shot Dean a questioning look before returning his gaze to the boy. "Are you hurt?"

Cassidy squirmed but didn't answer.

"He'll be okay," Dean said. Even though his own gaze was taking in the four-year-old's body, checking for injury. And he found it, at the back of his shirt, where the blue was scorched black and a few inches of rosy shoulder blade showed through. "We need to get out of here."

"Someone will have called the cops by now," Sam said. He stood straight, his long legs carrying him above Dean's line of sight. "What are we going to tell them?"

It was distant and faint, but Dean could hear a siren coming from somewhere. Help on its way.

"We're not tellin' 'em jack." He swooped down, picking up the boy without effort. The kid didn't resist, sitting tight against his side. Cassidy pressed his chin into Dean's shoulder wrapping an arm around the man's neck. "Let's go, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam took a step back, hesitant. "You do realize this is considered kidnapping, right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, isn't this what you wanted earlier today? Or was all that emo crap just a chance for you to stomp on my last nerve."

"Not like this," Sam said, just a hint of anger in his voice. "I didn't want _this_ to happen. Dean, we can't just take him—people know this kid. He'll notice he's missing. I'm sure he's got other family somewhere."

"Bull," Dean snapped. But he didn't have more than that left in him. He sighed. "Sam, I don't care if…"

"_Dean, please_."

The words stopped him in his tracks. They'd come from the kid, he was certain. And they were familiar. Hadn't he heard them before, five years ago, said in that same pleading tone? Or was that his imagination, too?

Dean straightened, putting an open hand on the boy's back, just below the burn. His green eyes danced in the night, searching his brother for understanding, but his words were hard, unquestionable: "He's coming with us."

Sam submitted with a nod. "He's coming with us," he echoed.


	5. Chapter 4: Wounded

**A/N: Yes, I have been gone a long time. Sorry about that. Had other writing obligations for the last month or so. I can promise more updates for this month, however. Thank you for all the supportive feedback and suggestions. Even though I don't always get around to PMing each reviewer, each review is very appreciated.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Wounded**

* * *

"_Angels don't sleep." _

Dean could remember his brother making the observation, all those years ago, when there hadn't been a next week to worry about, and the way Sam's lips were shaped just now, the slight gloom in his eyes, it was like he was reminding Dean all over again. Only, this time, he didn't have to say the words, and, _this_ time, instead of settling back in his seat, Sam was outside, staring in through the back window at the sleeping form across the bench seat.

"I'll get him," Dean said. Another statement he didn't need to make.

Sam was already moving away, going for their bags.

They'd ditched the other motel, the one perched above the diner, and neither of them had mentioned why they'd driven thirty more miles away from the town. The new place was all but dead, tucked away in some back-woods town that had little use for an inn and might remember them too well. But it didn't matter, because the brothers planned on sneaking in their little passenger and sneaking him back out again before the owners ever got a look.

Dean leaned in past the boy's legs and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him up out of the car as if he'd done it a dozen times before. Cassidy barely stirred.

Sam dumped the duffle and held the door open, his eyes trailing the pair, as if there was something entirely alien to the scene. Dean snorted, rolled his eyes at his brother, and stepped inside, hesitating as he looked from one double bed to the other, trying to weigh the decision. And, God, if this wasn't getting weirder by the second, this whole holding another guy thing. Even if the guy in question was tiny and wearing baby blue PJs.

_Shit, there's something wrong with me_.

Dean chewed his lip, because as strange as it seemed, as weird as he knew it was, Dean kind of didn't want to let go. The smell of smoke gathering around them, clinging to their clothes, to their heat-pinked skin, it only made the need to hold on worse.

"_Take your brother and run, Dean!" _

Were those the words Dad had used, or just a part of the memory of a memory? Dean wasn't sure anymore, but the sentiment was there. Sam saved him from having to think about it.

"Over here," Sam insisted, sacrificing the inside bed. He was already holding the over-packed First Aid kit in his hands and one of his t-shirts. With a jerky move he slipped off to the bathroom, grabbed a damp towel, too. "We need to get a look at him."

Dean laid the kid down. Cassidy's eyes opened a moment, that glazed, still-dreaming quality in their lazy stare. Dean rolled him over to get a better view of his back, and Sam sucked in a breath, muttering a curse. It turned into some low-volume ramble on burns and infections and children and "we may need to look up a doctor in the morning." And somehow, the concern put Dean to ease, and he pulled up a chair beside the bed.

"Got some experience with kids and burns," Dean said, a small smile on his face.

Sam echoed the expression, mocked offense in his lowered brow. "I was _five._ And I was _trying_ to bake you a birthday cake that time."

"With Rice Krispies, a stick of butter, and a canister of sugar," Dean reminded, chuckling. "Thought Dad was gonna kill the both of us, but he turned it into a lesson instead. How to treat burnt fingers. Followed up by, how to eat Sammy's really gross concoction with a smile on your face."

Sam shook his head, wistful. "I don't remember that part."

"Then you're missing out." Dean eased Cassidy's shirt off, careful of the tender burn at his shoulder blade, and still amazed by the way little kids could lose all awareness in their sleep. He went to task, slowly cleaning the area. "Dad swallowing down charcoal cereal to make you stop crying? That was a good one. 'Course, wasn't as funny when I had to join in."

Dean's voice trailed off when he lifted the cool towel from the boy's back. "Huh." He leaned in close, looking the area over. The skin was enflamed, red as a sunburn, but not blistered. The skin was still whole, but for a small cut against the bone where something hot probably connected. "Could have sworn this looked worse before."

"It was dark out." Still, Sam's brow was wrinkled with thought. He had moved on to Cassidy's fisted hand, looking at the jagged laceration at the palm. The cut was shallow, just enough to look ugly and draw blood. "Won't need stitches." Sam cocked his head. "Fallen angels are human—entirely, right? I mean, there wouldn't be any chance of…"

Dean wasn't sure how that sentence was supposed to end, but he answered quickly. "Like you said, it was dark. The kid's just a kid, Sam. I'm happy the burn isn't worse."

Sam hesitated, then nodded. "Me, too."

They worked faster after that, washing off the soot and dirt. The smoke-stained PJs had to go, and Sam's huge tee swallowed the kid whole, serving as a perfect sleeping gown. A bath could wait until morning, they'd decided, but the pain relievers couldn't. Dean went out, found some Children's Advil at the closest gas-station, and when he returned, the salt lines and wards had been laid. And Cassidy was awake.

Maybe awake wasn't the right word for it. His eyes were squeezed shut, hot tears streaming down his face, and his bandaged hand bouncing off Sam's chest.

"Don't!" the boy screeched, throwing another blow. He looked frantic, his struggle only slowed by the sluggishness of sleep. "Don't!"

Sam had one arm wrapped around him, trying to hold him still. A small foot caught the man in the stomach, making him grunt. He shot his brother a glare. "A little help here."

Dean dropped his bag, kicked the door shut, and fell to his knees in front of the bed. "Cas, wake up." Dean caught his arms, holding them gently. It wasn't hard to do. "Cas, open your eyes—it's Dean. You're just dreaming."

The boy calmed, almost in an instant, his stinging eyes opening, blinking to clear the wetness. Out of instinct, Sam had moved his restraining fingers up, patting the kid's hair down instead, trying to keep that new calm in place.

"Dream?"

Dean barely heard the question, but he nodded along. "Just a bad dream," he assured, and tried to smile. "Listen, Cas, are you hurting anywhere?"

But the kid wasn't paying attention to him anymore. He was trying to get back onto his knees, look over Sam's hulking form for something.

"Where's Grandma?"

Or someone.

_Shit. _Dean rubbed a hand over his face, trying to buy himself a moment, and looked up to Sam, but his brother was shaking his head in flat refusal. _Thanks, Sam. That's helpful._

How was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to take back what he'd just said? Tell a kid that part wasn't a dream, that his grandmother was a pile of ashes. How had his father told him, back when he was a four-year-old who wanted to know where Mom was? Dean could barely remember the details now, but he knew how that felt, that numb hollowness. It was something he was too young to handle then.

Dean hoped to…shit, he hoped to _someone_ that Castiel was here, still in this consciousness, because Cassidy, _just_ Cassidy, was too young, too.

"That wasn't a dream." Cassidy had said the words that Dean was struggling with. The boy sat up a little straighter, his face suddenly solemn, aged. "She's dead. He burned her."

Dean opened his mouth, failed, and nodded. "Feel like you can take some medicine, Cas?"

The boy was asleep again, a stain of grape-flavored syrup at the corner of his mouth, and curled onto his side, bandaged hand close to his lips. Dean and Sam stood over him, staring down, and never feeling so tall in all their lives.

"Maybe he's like me," Sam said.

Dean didn't like any train of thought that led to Sam comparing himself to someone else. It never ended pretty. Still, Dean didn't have the strength to stop him from going on.

"Maybe his mind's broken into pieces, too." Sam's gaze was lost, like it had been the first few days after his wall had…after Castiel had torn it down. "Like there's the part of him who's four and the part of him who remembers being an angel. Maybe another part, too, something that's in-between."

* * *

The shower had been scolding, but Dean could still smell the faint scent of the fire on his skin. It wrinkled his nose, made bile wash his throat. He pressed the towel against his face, pulling away the last bit of moisture, and ran it over his hair one last time before wrapping it around his waist. Then he reached for the cell phone balanced on the back of the toilet.

Not that usually took a phone with him to the bathroom. But there was a call he needed to make, one in private. So he leaned his bare back against the tiled wall and dialed.

"_Someone better had lost a limb for you to be calling this damn early." _

Early? Dean snorted. "What happened to 'I'll sleep when I'm dead'?"

There was a pause on the other end before Bobby's voice returned, some of the hostility lost. _"What's wrong, Dean? You boys in trouble?"_

Dean didn't know where to begin, so he painted the fakest smile he could manage on his face, hoping it would come across in his voice. Because, hell, he needed a good laugh right now, even if it wasn't heartfelt. "You wouldn't believe who we ran into today."

* * *

Dean stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in sweats, hair dry, and swiped at the sweat on his brow_. That could have gone better. _Question/Answer time with Bobby Singer didn't get any easier, even when the old codger was tired. And the name Castiel had him moodier than usual.

After fifteen minutes of verbally berating the hunting duo for not calling him first, Bobby had calmed down, asked if they wanted him to meet them half-way. Dean had shrugged off the notion, promised they could make it without the extra help.

"Be there in a couple days, Bobby. Kid might be more hurt than we know, so we'll be taking it slow."

And Bobby had actually laughed at that. _"Bet you will. When's the last time you two traveled with a four-year-old?"_

With a promise to keep each other updated, they'd said their goodnights.

Dean shoved his dirties into the right bag and stretched out the kink in his shoulders before turning back to the rest of the room. The lamp light was turned to dim, the sound of soft, sleeping breaths the only welcome he received; it was surreal, the image in front of him. His baby brother, bootless, and smooth browed in a peaceful sleep beside a tiny body. An angel. Who was rolled against the tall hunter's side.

"Nope, not weird at all," Dean noted. He shook his head, raised his cell, and snapped a shot before tucking a blanket over the pair.

He needed his brother up. Needed to talk about the parts of the evening they'd been avoiding. Like the fact that a demon was coming after the kid. And maybe them. Of course, that would lead to the things Dean _didn't_ want to talk about. Like how Cas had somehow let him know something was wrong. Had sent that vision his way.

So, Dean let Sam sleep.

* * *

_Underwear. Shirts. Pants. Jacket. Socks. Shoes. Special medicine. Special food. Toys. Christ, kids needed a lot crap. So much for that credit card. _Dean was still going over the list in his head when he shuffled through the motel door, arms overloaded with bags, including their breakfast. "…So, turns out the size 5 toddler clothes are the same as the size small in regular kids—do they really expect people to keep up with all these different sizes? I mean, if it's the same size, they should just say it's the same damn size. And what the hell is up with separating the kids stuff and the baby stuff anyhow—babies turn into friggin' kids…"

Sam didn't reply. Dean dumped the load and raised a brow at his otherwise occupied brother. "What, am I talking to myself here?"

Sam muttered something incoherent, his body leaned forward, eyes trying to focus on the television and his Ipad at the same time. He wasn't succeeding.

Dean slammed the door shut, finally making the younger hunter jump. Hazel eyes darted up. "Oh—Dean, come look at this."

Dean grumbled under his breath, sat down on the edge of the bed, then realized something was wrong with this picture. "Where's Cas?"

Sam waved a hand, dismissing the question. "He's taking a bath—come look at this."

Dean's eyes widened. "By himself? What the hell, Sam? You're supposed to be watching him! You didn't even leave the door open."

Sam frowned. "It's two inches of water, Dean. And I didn't want him to see what I was looking at."

"Was the water hot? Did you check?"

"Lukewarm," Sam huffed. "I'm not an idiot, Dean. And what's with the sudden mother-hen routine? Cas is safe with us."

Dean shook his head. "Bet you'd even let him go to a public restroom by himself," he muttered, before straightening up. "What's so friggin important, research boy?"

"This."

And Dean suddenly understood why Sam was trying to watch the news and look up the news at the same time. The article was on the fire, and the reporter claimed two lives had been lost.

"They think Cassidy died in bed," Sam said, his voice low.

"Isn't that a good thing? Kind of gets rid of your whole kidnapping worry."

Sam sighed. "When we left, we could hear the sirens, Dean. The fire was bad, but it wasn't that bad. This article says some of the farm equipment exploded, burned down the place so quickly that they don't think they'll be able to recover the bodies. But the fire wasn't anywhere close to the barn."

When he caught Dean's lost expression, Sam continued, "I think the demon was still there when we showed. I think he saw us leave and cleaned up after himself."

Dean ran his thumb across his bottom lip, worried. "If he was there, why didn't he come out? Finish us? We were distracted."

Sam took a moment to reply, his eyes dark. "Why'd he come after Cas in the first place?" He shook his head. "And what about the case we were going to look into, the teenager summoning something that took his body for a joyride less than a day before this happened. Sounds like a demon's MO. Are we going to consider that a coincidence?"

Dean stood, rummaging through the bags. "Go get the kid out of the tub before he busts his head open on a faucet."

Sam didn't move. "Dean…"

"Just do it, Sam."

Dean was ripping off price tags when the phone buzzed against his pocket. He rolled his eyes, pulled it free, expecting to see Bobby's name. But it wasn't the old hunter. It took another two rings before Dean finally recognized the name connected with the number.

He answered before it could go to voice-mail.

"Brother Matthews?"

There was a sigh of relief on the other end. _ "Yes—this is Dean Winchester, right?" _He didn't wait for a reply_. "Bobby'd given me your number when he said you were coming by to pick up his book, but I wasn't sure if it was still in service. I'm glad I reached you."_

"Something wrong?" Dean asked, guilt flooding him. He knew exactly what was wrong. Two of the young preacher's flock had just been reported as dead.

"_There was a terrible accident last night, Mr. Winchester_." Brother Matthews swallowed, the sound deep and wet over the phone. "_Only, I'm afraid it might not have been an accident. The little boy you spoke to yesterday, Cas…I'm afraid he and his grandmother were killed."_

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. "Caught that on the news," Dean finally replied. He gripped the phone a little tighter. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"_That's the thing, Dean…I'm not so sure I can trust what the police are saying about the fire."_ His voice was hushed. "_I think…I think it might have been something more in your line of work. How close are you and your brother to Frog Pond? Do you think you could come back, look into this?_"

"We're…" Dean paused, a dull throb working its way from behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push down the ache. It reminded him of something, of that headache he'd had after the vision.

"_Dean, if you and Sam could come out here, I'd appreciate it."_

Come out here.

Come out.

_Come out, come out_, and an unspoken "wherever you are" still hanging in the air. The voice practically singing the words. It was so familiar, but the last time Dean had heard it, it hadn't been in a burning house, but in a Church.

Dean blinked, eyes suddenly alight with anger. "Son of a bitch."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. When Brother Matthews' voice returned, it was higher, a pleased edge to the words. "_That's no way to talk to a preacher, Dean_." He chuckled. "_Granted, Aaron Matthews has been using quite the language ever since I crawled into his skin. Pretty impressive vocabulary, actually. You should hear what he's saying right now."_

Dean's jaw was tight. He heard footsteps, saw Sam ushering a towel-draped Cas into the room. Both the man and the kid were giving Dean a strange look, like they could tell something was wrong.

"Who are you?" Dean managed.

"_Aaron Matthews, at the moment. Call me Aaron, though. The other title, well, it just seems wrong, doesn't it?"_

Dean's nostrils flared. "Who _the Hell_ are you?"

"_That's the question, Dean. I want you to find the answer, and, when you do, I'm going to rip you apart. I'm going make it _hurt_. I'm going to make sure you know _exactly_ what I felt_." He chuckled, breaking from the threat. "_Say hi to Sam for me, and Castiel. Wouldn't want to leave him out, would we?" _

The call disconnected before Dean could reply. He looked up, held Sam's gaze. "We're leaving. Now."


	6. Chapter 5: Misguided Ghosts

**A/N:** Ok, no spoilers, but I saw a clip from the season 7 opening (several of you probably know the one I'm talking about) and…I think I cried a little. Might have raised a fist and shouted "Khan!." Yeah. But, I'm keeping my constant mantra of "the writers know what they're doing…the writers know what they're doing…" But, the writers aren't going with the reborn!baby!Cas idea. *Sad* Anyhow, thanks for the great feedback for the previous chapter. Hope you enjoy this one as well.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Misguided Ghosts**

* * *

Dean tried to concentrate on the road, tried to push down that rage inside, leaving his knuckles white against the steering wheel and his jaw tight. It was playing with them. This _demon_ was stringing them along, and here he was, running from the fight.

_Friggin' déjà vu, Winchester._

His fingers moved, hesitating before they could press in the cassette tape promising to calm his nerves. He let his eyes dance up to the rearview mirror and saw the kid sleeping against the seat, head lolled back, mouth slightly open. He was in the red t-shirt with a bear print across the chest. It looked so clean and crisp, new, despite the crumbled biscuit at the neckline. Dean felt his jaw loosen up, and his hand dropped back onto the wheel, the music forgotten.

Sam was following his train of thought, but he'd turned halfway in his seat, arm stretched out to swipe up the kiddie cup before it could spill. He held it in his hand awkwardly before deciding there wasn't a decent place to sit it, and straightened back up, giving Dean a sideways glance.

"He really likes the car," Sam observed.

Dean snorted. "Noticed." Cas hadn't nodded off until he'd given them a ten minute report on how shiny and fast the Impala was, finishing with a complaint that he couldn't see out the windows. Dean found himself back inside his memories. It was too hard to believe that the boy in the back was something ancient. "He used to say it was too slow."

Sam smirked. "I remember." But his hazel eyes had lost their humor quickly enough. "So, are we going to talk?"

"About what?"

Dean counted "faking dumb" amongst his many skills. Unfortunately, it didn't work too well on his brother.

"About the demon who threatened to rip you into shreds," Sam snapped. He pursed his lips, obviously straining to keep his voice low. "The one apparently hijacking Brother Matthews' body? You know, the reason why you've been speeding since we hit the state line?"

"What's there to talk about? Evil thing being evil and doing evil things. Not exactly original, dude."

"Par for the course," Sam agreed, then tilted his head, "except for the part where it's not. Dean, this thing is coming after us. The_ three_ of us. And apparently, you have some history with it. It _called us out_."

"No, it probably came after Cas to get to us," Dean replied. He reached up, rubbing the nape of his neck to ward off an ache. "And, in case you haven't noticed, we're kinda at the top of our fair share of demonic hit-lists. Have been for years. One of the bastards just got in a lucky break with finding the kid. Decided to use him to draw us in."

Sam shook his head, watching the road in front of them. "You sure?"

"Hell, it—_Aaron_—said he wanted to get our attention in the," Dean waved a dismissive hand, "in the vision or whatever."

Dean realized he'd said the wrong thing when he felt Sam's laser eyes on him again, burning a hole through him, as if he could somehow see what was going on in his brother's head. Pretending not to notice, Dean eased the car into an empty fill-up station, lining up beside a pump, and putting her into park.

"Crowley," Sam stated.

Dean raised a brow. "Well, I'm sure the Queen of Hell is still wearing the crown, Sammy, but I'd don't think this is quite his style. 'Course, it's been a while, and I might have pissed in his orange juice when I rounded up that pair of crossroad demons in Los Angeles. And he _does_ love the dramatics…"

"_We_, Dean. _We_ rounded them up." Sam shook his head. "That's not what I meant, though. Crowley might know who this guy is. If we could find a way to get some leverage—"

Dean cut him off. "Not happening. For all we know, Crowley could have sent this guy our way. Could be calling the shots." He cracked open his door, the hinge whining. "And in case you've forgotten, while we're not his favorite people, he's got a hard-on for Cas that'll probably last out the century. The less he knows about Cassidy, the better."

Sam nodded, reluctantly, "I know, I just think…"

But his voice trailed off to the sound a rushed breath in the backseat. Dean was half out of the car when he realized Cas was awake and fighting the door handle.

"Hold your horses, kid," Dean groaned. "You need to use the, um, _potty_?"

"Dean, watch him!" Sam shouted.

Dean didn't get the message in time. As soon as the back door was open, Cas slipped out past Dean, at a dead run toward station. A curse at his lips, the man shot off after the small figure, Sam already at his heels. They barely missed a Volvo diving into the lot.

Dean swooped Cas up with one arm, taking a kicking sneaker in the thigh when he pressed the boy's back against his chest.

"What the hell?" he snapped, then caught himself.

Or, more precisely, the gape-mouthed Cathy Bates look-alike behind the checkout counter caught him. Dean gave her a silent, all-is-well smile through the glass door, hoping she didn't call the police, because, shit, he probably looked like some sort of creepy child abductor by this point.

"Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."

Sam had caught up with them, but was standing a good four feet away, as if afraid the kid might explode at any moment. His worried eyes moved from Dean to Cassidy.

"Cas, why did you run like that? It was dangerous."

The boy went limp in Dean's arms, the fight draining out of him. The dead weight was somehow heavier, so Dean slowly slumped down with his load, sitting on the cool concrete of the sidewalk. One look at the tobacco stains and dried gum beneath him and he kept Cassidy balanced on his thigh. Cautiously, he loosened his grip.

"I won't," Cassidy muttered.

Dean shifted him, getting a better look at the wet, lowered lashes beneath the tuff of dark hair. "Won't what?"

Cassidy fidgeted. His voice still as low as a whisper, "Go see the bad man. Never again."

Looking as if he'd taken a punch to the stomach, Sam took a knee beside the pair. "God, Cas, I didn't think you were awake. We weren't going to take to—" He paused, face blanched. "You remember Crowley?"

Cassidy blinked, confused. "Someone bad," he answered, shaking his head. A hint of uncertainty hung to the quaver of his voice. "He's in my dreams sometimes. M-makes me feel sick."

Dean told himself it was his own pulse picking up, that the fear, the sense of panic, was his own, but he knew better. Before it could peak, he wrapped his arm back around the boy. A narrow shoulder pressed into the crook of his arm.

"He isn't here. Won't be here, you get me, Cas?" Dean bit. He swallowed, letting his thumb worry the sleeve of the little red shirt. "Sam and me, we'll make sure he doesn't come near you, okay?"

Cassidy leaned into him. "The other monsters, too?"

Sam cocked his head. "What other monsters, Cas?"

Cassidy lifted one hand, pressing it against his sternum. "The ones that were here," he said, and glanced up, blue eyes bright. "The monsters that whisper. That made me want to do bad things."

Sam slipped down onto the walk, long legs pulled up, and looked away. Lost in thought, even though the boy was still staring after him, waiting for an answer.

Dean cleared his throat and forced himself not think too hard about it. About the monsters Cassidy remembered. About how many were running through Castiel, fueling him, the night he turned away from his friends. About how many of those whispers the angel was hearing.

"Those, too," Dean promised.

* * *

"Hungry?"

Dean was starting to wonder if some of Jimmy Novak hadn't made it into Cas-reincarnate. How'd that work, anyhow? Dean wasn't a scientist by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew that DNA had to come from somewhere. What part of the fallen angel was still angel? Where'd the vessel he was in _go_?

Dean wanted to pose the questions to Sam, certain his brother would get his geek-on trying to find the answers, work out the details. Because, surely, there was some Jimmy in there—that or Castiel had taking a liking to the look. Those eyes, that face. Dean was pretty certain the grown-up version was going to go for the trenchcoat-wearing accountant look, too.

And , of course, there was the burger thing.

Sitting high on his booster seat, the kid poked the last of the bun into his mouth, just barely able to keep his lips closed as he chewed. He hummed a little song while he ate, oblivious to the trail of ketchup down his chin, the spot of mustard on his nose.

"Don't choke," Dean said, not sure how that would help.

Poking at the remains of his salad, Sam was openly staring. "I thought kids ate less?"

Dean smirked at his brother, patting Cassidy on the back when something sounded like it might be headed down the wrong pipe. "Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, Sammy. You obviously don't remember what you were like at that age."

"I'm pretty sure I couldn't inhale a quarter-pounder by preschool, Dean."

"Nope, you weren't a beef guy." Dean shook his head, a teasing smile at the corner of his lips. "Kids eat weird. One day I couldn't get you to eat jack, thought you'd starve to death for sure, and the next you were sucking down a box of cereal in one go. Oh, and one time you got a hold of the hot dogs that were supposed to be for supper. Ate the whole pack cold. You spent the night throwing up." He chuckled. "It was great—I think a couple franks came back up unchewed."

Sam raised a brow, returning the grin, and waiting for his brother to reach a conclusion.

Dean frowned down at Cassidy's empty plate. "Oh. Crap."

"Hope you bought Pepto. You're staying up with him," Sam said, too damn cheerful at the prospect. He let his smile drop some, and reached down, pulling a newspaper from the empty seat beside him. "This caught my eye while you were in the bathroom." He tapped the bottom of the front page. "It's a follow-up story. Local. Check it out."

Dean swiped his face off with a napkin, running it over Cassidy's chin while he was at it, then took the paper. "Don't tell me you're looking for a job."

Sam's nose twitched. "I wasn't looking for a job, Dean, but I think I found one."

Dean scanned the article, unable to refute that part. From what he could gather, a young couple had been killed while checking out a house their realtor had sent them to. Only, the realtor claimed he hadn't contacted the couple, that he'd never even seen the property before.

"Could be," Dean nodded.

"Keep reading."

Ah, onto the next page. The old place was empty because the last occupants had met an unfortunate end a few months previous. An end that apparently involved a scandalous affair that had come to a bloody conclusion. _Bingo._ It was nice when the journalists were gossipy enough include the good stuff. Made a hunter's job easier.

Dean slid the paper back to Sam. He gave the rest of the diner a look-over, noting their waitress at the far end of the room, talking to one of the only other customers, an elderly man with a hearing aid. He figured they could talk freely. "Probably a spirit. Give Louise a call. She and Dani can handle it when they finish their other job."

"They're headed in the opposite direction. And before you ask, Old Abe is still in Mexico." Sam's brow was sporting a new wrinkle. "Dean, we're already passing through. The property is less than three miles from here, and you said we were stopping for the night, anyhow. I can check out the history and be back before dark."

Dean pointed to his side, where Captain Mustard was playing with the condiment bottle. "Dude. Four-year-old."

Sam thumped the paper. "People are dying."

"Then we get done at Bobby's and come back."

"Dean." Sam took a breath. "Dean, what exactly does 'get done' mean? More people will be dead by then—I mean, this spirit, or whatever it is, drew this couple in. Baited them. It'll do it again."

Dean leaned across his place setting. "Dude," he growled, "Four-year-old. What are we supposed to do, drop him at a sitter's and hope that demon doesn't visit while we're digging up graves?"

Sam glanced at Cassidy before answering. "When we were little, Dad used to leave us in the car all the time. He'll be safe—he'll probably sleep through it. We won't be out of sight long. Dean, this is an _easy_ hunt, but putting it aside might cost someone their life."

A chuckle. Hard, bitter. Dean licked his top lip. "Really, Sam? You're bringing in Dad's methods for child care?"

"It worked didn't it?"

"That's because you had _me_ looking after you."

"Dean, I—"

"I'm not bringing Cassidy on a hunt, damn it!"

Dean straightened when he saw the outburst had caught the attention of the waitress. She went back to her chat quickly enough, though.

There was a tug at his sleeve. Dean glanced down to see Cassidy staring at him. "Is someone going to die?"

Dean rolled his eyes and settled with glaring daggers at his brother. Sam, for his part, looked flustered.

"No, Cas. No one is going to die," Sam answered.

But Cassidy didn't seem to believe him. His eyes were wide, darting back and forth between the men. "You'll save them?"

Dean chewed his jaw. "Don't worry about it, kid."

Cassidy's tiny fist tightened on to Dean's jacket. "We save people," he stated. The childishness was gone from his features. His eyes dark with seriousness. "From monsters."

Dean didn't reply, but Sam nodded. "That's our job," he said, staring down his brother, "saving people."

"Not this time."

* * *

Dean had a problem with saying no. He thought he'd outgrown the weakness, but apparently, all that his brother needed to convince him to make the dumbass move was the power of a second pair of puppy-dog eyes.

Shit. This was a bad idea.

The moon was heavy, not quite full but getting there, and it lit their path to the old rural estate better than the Impala's headlights. Dean stared down the driveway, watched the blackened windows of the house for movement, but found none. Sam was already digging through the trunk, loading the duffle, so Dean didn't waste a curse, going straight to business.

He told himself this was different. Cassidy was different. So it wasn't like he was really putting a kid in danger this time. The reassurance didn't do its part.

He leaned over the bench seat, putting the open canister of salt in Cassidy's hands. "Now, you remember what I said, right?"

Those words were familiar. They were usually followed by "_keep Sammy safe_," "_watch over Sammy," "do your job, Dean," _which meant the same thing. Dean hated himself a little.

Cassidy nodded solemnly but didn't repeat the list of rules. "It's okay, Dean," he said, his voice high. More Castiel than Cassidy at the moment. It was unnerving, but it was over a moment later, when Cassidy pouted. "My tummy hurts."

Dean frowned. "That's what happens when you try to take on a cow, buddy. You need more of the pink stuff?"

Cassidy shook his head. "Just hurts."

"I'll be back in no time, alright? Something happens, you press that first button on my phone and tell Bobby, you understand?"

The boy tightened his grip on the salt and nodded.

Dean locked the door behind him, swiped the sweat off his upper lip, and marched away from the vehicle, barely giving Sam time to catch up.

"He would pitch another fit if we tried to leave, Dean." Sam caught his brother's elbow, slowing him down. He pulled back when it looked like a fist might swing his way. "You get that right? This hunt, it's important to him. He needs it, he just doesn't _know_ he needs it. That's why he got mad when you said we were leaving it behind."

The waitress had actually charged him for the mustard bottle. Life was unfair.

Dean scowled, kicking up dirt when he turned around. "What, you're the Toddler Whisperer now? He's a kid—he _needs_ the opposite of a hunt. You of all people should be on board with that!"

Sam bit down whatever he was about to say and held Dean in place with a jutting tilt of his chin. "Saving people helps with the guilt, Dean. You know _exactly_ how much it helps."

"Cas isn't guilty of anything, Sammy. He's four!" Dean felt the heat flushing his features. He calmed himself down, watched the Impala from the corner of his eye, hoping the kid couldn't hear them. "When he was talking about the monsters… You really think he feels guilt for what happened back then? Because he shouldn't. Not anymore."

"I don't think he understands any of it. But yeah." Sam shook his head. "It's in his eyes, man. I don't know if it's because of…before, or if it's because of his grandma, but he feels something. Guilt. He needs to feel like he's making the right decisions. He needs to know people still get saved."

"We still talking about Cas here, or are you about to get your inner-Oprah going?"

Sam rolled his eyes, and they looked wet in the moonlight. "Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean pulled the sawed-off out of his brother's hand, checked the barrel. "Let's hunt."

* * *

**End Notes:** Forgot to mention, the title of this chapter came from the Paramore song of the same name. More action next chapter, promise.


	7. Chapter 6: Play Dead

**A/N:** Maybe I should have put an additional disclaimer like "Winchester parenting method not advised for real children." Warning for upcoming ouchies.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Play Dead**

* * *

"Dean, watch out!"

The shatter of a window above the sink, the crack of floor boards, the howl of a wind that didn't exist: Sam thought his own voice was just part of the song, one he'd heard so many times before.

"_Son of a_—get the fuel, Sam!"

It could have been choreographed, their movements. Even the ghost was in on it, shoving his hand into Dean at just the right time, flickering into nonexistence just before the rock salt dispersed. But the thing about life and death situations…

"Got it! Salt?"

…Was that they were never boring. No matter how many times the dance was performed, the fists thrown, the shots fired.

"Need a light, Casper?"

The rush was there, whether embraced or detested. The work never got old.

Flames licked the floor in a mad race, running the length of the spill and covering everything in their path with a blanket of orange. Heat pressed at his back, and cold hit him from the front. Sam nearly stumbled into Dean on their way out of the house as both of them stopped and studied the ghost blocking the doorway. A split second later, the silent spirit collapsed into embers that never managed to hit the floor.

Job done.

The fresh air was a relief. Sam barked out a cough when his feet hit grass. He paused beside Dean to watch the light bouncing from the curtainless windows of the abandoned house.

"Guess the bank's not getting their auction," he commented. "Should we call the fire department?"

Dean quirked a brow, eyes distant, like they usually were right after a hunt. "Better safe than sorry. Let it burn."

Sam waited for Dean to crack a joke about the statistics for injuries in the kitchen. It never happened. Wasn't the first time this evening that Dean had went strangely quiet. While Sam had rattled on about the case, about the information he'd gathered, _by himself_, he wanted to point out, Dean had done his part to interrupt with comments about their dad's bad habits in the parenting department.

It wasn't helpful.

The previous owner of the house, Todd Pierce, didn't have a problem with blood. Or, at least, that was the conclusion Sam had drawn after doing some research on the three deaths. If local gossip was accurate—and Sam had been gambling that it was—Todd had taken a short day at the office, only to come home to his wife and best friend taking advantage of the sturdy breakfast table. Double murder-suicide had been the name of the game, and Todd, the cremated, had been their spook of the hour.

Todd, the punisher of young couples, had, like his first victims, bled out in the kitchen, where the blood had traveled down the foundation, collected in the hard grain of the wood floor, the molding, the counter-top. Dean was right; better to let it burn.

"Told you it wouldn't take long," Sam said, and almost managed to laugh. "Not even a grave to dig up."

Dean, transfixed by the fire past the glass, stirred with those words. Instead of replying, though, he kicked up gravel, setting off in a march toward the Impala. As if he couldn't waste another minute. As if they'd been gone two hours instead of thirty minutes.

Sam sighed. _Not helpful._

"Dean, he's fine."

But Sam started to worry when he saw Dean speed up, slam a fist off the hood, and reel back, sucking in a breath. "God damn it!"

_No_. Sam stopped in his tracks, throat dry. He felt the artery in his throat hitch. "He's not in there?"

Dean shot back a glance that clearly stated where he stood when it came to dumb questions and rounded the car. "Cas?" His voice broke, trailed a string of curses, then picked up again. "Cas, are you out here?"

Sam stood frozen in place, wondering if the kid was actually sleeping in the backseat, if Dean wasn't just playing some sort of joke. Teaching him a lesson about leaving small children by themselves. Sam's jaw tightened when he saw his brother drop to his knees, checking the darkness beneath the car for movement.

No joke.

Sam was a second away from despising himself when he spotted movement to their left. "Cas?" Sam's eyes widened in surprise, and he found himself at the ditch just in time to see the boy looking up at him with a pout at his lips.

"I was sick," he said, in that trickling, almost absent voice. Blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight, sweat coating his dark hair against his brow. "Sorry."

Dean had caught up. He jumped over the side, ankle deep in muck and leaves, and maneuvered Cassidy away from the puddle of half-masticated burger left behind. Dean lifted him up in one quick swoop, let Sam pull him the rest of the way out of the ditch, before hopping up onto the dry driveway again.

"What the _hell_, Cas?" Dean's face was flushed, his brow low. "I gave you an _order_—I told you not to leave the car," he snapped. "You could have been _killed_! Do you understand that? Killed!"

"Dean!" It came out as shout, but it was enough to ground his brother. Sam took a measured breath, hands lowered, holding the kid in place. "Dude, calm down."

Cassidy had backed up, shoulders against Sam's legs, and was staring up at the men in wide-eyed confusion. His chin shook when he opened his mouth.

Even quieter this time. "I was sick."

Dean swiped a hand over his face, breathing hard. "Cas." And he was back on his knee again, eye level with the boy. "Never do that again, alright?"

Cassidy nodded twice, measured movements. "I didn't want the car to get dirty."

Sam was almost amazed at how quickly the anger seemed to drain off of his brother. A switch had been flipped. So much like their dad. Only, the sentiment made Sam grin instead of sneer.

"So, you feeling better now that the tank's on Empty again, or does your stomach still hurt?"

Dean got a shrug as his answer. Cassidy paused, looking over his shoulder, past Sam's legs, wincing when he saw the house, the flames flickering in the windows. He fisted the shirt at his stomach, frowning.

"Are there people inside?" he asked.

"Just the monster," Dean promised. He glanced up, catching Sam's eye. "We're going to Bobby's," he stated, but Sam knew the translation. _No hotel stops, no stupid ass hunts. Nothing that isn't food or a toilet, Sammy. Period._

Sam wanted to point out that everything was fine. It had turned out better than expected. The world was safer thanks to their pit stop.

"I can drive a while," he said, instead.

* * *

"With Grandma behind the wheel? Probably mid-afternoon." Dean snorted into the phone, and quickly decided he didn't want to go back to _why_ Sam was driving. "What're you making for supper?"

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear to avoid the loud growl on the other end. He leaned one shoulder against the brick of the building, hoping he didn't look like a creeper while he watched through the glass doors leading inside, to the public restrooms. Not that there was much of an audience to judge him. A few truckers at the back side of the rest area, their parked rigs rumbling, a couple blackened cars near the front, owners catching a nap. An old woman and her poodle making their way back to a handicap van. Post midnight at the state line's tax-built pit-stop.

The entire area smelled like spilled soda, bubble gum, and tobacco, but not enough to match a motel's carpet. Dean couldn't stand these places. Too open.

When he put the phone back to his ear, Bobby was finishing his tirade with, "_and don't you even think of making these damned a.m. phone calls a habit. I'm too old for your crap…"_

"So, we'll bring some pizzas when we come in," Dean reasoned. He smiled, enjoying the other man's frustration. "Get back to your beauty sleep, Grumpy."

He'd get hell for that when the sun rose.

Dean slid the phone back into his pocket, watched the doors inside a moment later, and determined Sam and Cassidy were going to be a little while longer, especially since he'd punished his little brother with the responsibility of making Cas brush his teeth. Dean chuckled. Yeah, Sam was probably having some fun right about now.

He patted down his jacket for loose change. A quick check, and a sign on the covered breezeway housing the vending machines promised coffee. _Awesome_.

The light from the fluorescents in the building left his eyes stinging, even after their glow was at his back, but the beacon of freeze-dried java and old snack food left him confident that he could chase back the sandman for a few hours longer. The enclosure wasn't so much an enclosure as a roof hovering over two brick walls housing the machines, but it was the closest thing any of them were getting to a Denny's for the next few hundred miles.

Dean was pulling his steaming cup from the grate, trying to determine if Sam would prefer the white chocolate concoction or the mocha cappa crap when a sense of wrongness hit him. It was that unnerving chill, that familiar prickling sensation across the back of his neck: he was being watched.

Dean didn't have time to determine a plan of action. He felt an invisible weight hit him from behind and toss him into the machine, crushing the scalding drink against his stomach. Dean sucked in a breath when it dropped him just as quickly. His knees slammed onto the cement floor. He shifted, ready to get on his feet, but the weight slapped him back down, as if there were a wall right above his shoulder blades.

"Someone's been eating their demonic Wheaties," Dean muttered, but his mind was bursting with questions. Most of them concerning whether those glass doors to the building had opened. Whether he could hear a child in the distance. Whether the demon had already seen to them…

From in front of him, shoes tapped against the stone in a slow, teasing beat.

"You know, Dean…" And it sighed, put out. "I'm getting a little bored with waiting."

Brother Aaron Matthews, the thing wearing his skin, was standing a few feet away, hands resting in the pockets of his slacks, head cocked slightly, as if he were waiting for a response. Dean made a grab for the flask of holy water in his jacket. Aaron _tsked_ and the slick metal flew from his grasp.

"See, Dean, I've been keeping an eye on you, and I'm starting to think that you're not even _trying _to figure out who I am. Frankly, that pisses me off a little."

Dean felt the pressure squeezing into his chest, making it hard to breath, but he glanced up, forcing his lips into a smirk. "Kinda self absorbed, aren't you?" he bit.

He was off his knees in an instance. He slammed, shoulder first, into the glass front of the vending machine. The shatter rung in his ears, glass raining down around him. One slicing shard slid against his collar bone. Before he could take a breath, the force twisted his weight around, putting his back to the springs holding the food in place.

"Could have loaned you a buck if you really wanted a Twinkie that bad," Dean noted and grunted when the press of the bars became bruising.

Aaron's fist caught him across the cheek, the hit barely resonating before those same fingers wrapped around Dean's throat. The demon's eyes flashed to oily black nothingness, a tight grimace on his youthful face. "I don't think you're putting in any effort," he accused. "Granted, you shouldn't have to. I should be on your mind, Dean. You should already know me. You and Sam both." He leaned in, those black pits gluing the hunter in place as surely as his tightening hold. "But you don't have a clue, do you?"

Dean wanted to reply, he really did, and with a few colorful phrases, but he found himself shaking instead, his body trembling in an effort to find oxygen. Just before the shadows encroaching on his vision could take him completely, the demon's grip loosened slightly.

"Or maybe you do," Aaron said, his voice at a near whisper. Too close. Dean could smell the sulfur on his breath. "Maybe, in the back of your mind, you're screaming my name right now. But you refuse to say it, because you know, as soon as you do, I'm going to rip you into pieces."

Dean blinked back at him, confused. Realization lit his eyes. "Brandi with an 'i'?"

The pressure held him in place, but the demon stepped back a moment, as if surveying his prey. "You're not funny, Dean."

"_Please_. I'm hilar—"

Aaron's hand slapped down on Dean's mouth. The demon was too close again, his free hand yanking Dean's jacket down until the leather sleeves were around his elbows. Then Aaron reached for something behind the hunter, and for a moment, Dean thought there really was going to be a Twinkie brought into the equation. Then he felt it, the sharp kiss of metal as it pierced his shirt and touched the bare skin of his shoulder.

Dean had forgotten about the coils.

Something in the machine cracked as the metal spiral was ripped from its gear. Dean jerked when he felt it enter the muscle, twisting as it moved, as Aaron glided it in, expertly. It couldn't have been more than one full twist of the spring, but it felt never ending, continuous.

Dean jerked against the demon's weight, a curse ground out by the palm pressing his lips closed. Sweat slid down his flushed face, cooler to the touch than the blood rolling down his back.

"Dean, I know you're a little thick headed," Aaron said, his voice even, "so that's why I'm going to say this slowly." Another slight twist, another fresh stream of blood. "I could kill you. It wouldn't be hard. But I'm not going to, because you're not ready. You haven't suffered enough. And let's face it, Dean, physical torture isn't going to do the job. No, I'm going to take something from you…but not until you know how much you really need it. I'm going to make you _hurt_."

Aaron's fingers lifted from Dean's lips, letting him suck in a breath. "Why? You son of a bitch, _why_?"

Aaron hesitated. "I hate you. I hate all of you." He tilted his head again, studying the bead of red along the split at Dean's cheekbone. "But I didn't choose this. You did. You always choose, and you always make the same decision." He smeared the blood with his thumb, and gave him a playful slap. "And, what can I say? It's always the _wrong_ decision."

He grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and yanked him off the spiral's curve. Dean tosses his head back, teeth clenched to cut off the cry. The muscles of his back convulsed around the torn skin. Aaron didn't let him go, simply holding him up higher.

"You want to know _why_?" And then he grinned, a genuine expression. "You'll know as soon as you remember my name. That's all the answer you'll ever need."

Numb-legged, Dean couldn't catch himself when the force released him. He hit the cement, grasping at his shoulder with a hiss. His eyes were clenched shut, but he didn't have to open them to know the demon was already gone. Dean couldn't help but wonder if Aaron was right. If maybe he did know the name, if maybe the demon owned one of the faces that crossed through his mind every night, when he closed his eyes for bed.

There were so many.

* * *

There was nothing more soothing than the feel of his baby rolling across blacktop, but Dean couldn't get comfortable in the back seat, his good side squashed against the door, head on the flat pillow they'd swiped for Cassidy. He figured it was probably because his brother was twitchy enough for the two of them.

Sam kept his eyes on the road, most of the time, his body thrumming with pent-up emotion, hands tightening and loosening on the wheel, as if he were squeezing the life out of it. His massive jaw was set hard and chewing a mouthful of unsaid words every few minutes.

"Slow it down, Speedy," Dean said, his voice scratchier than a vinyl on the beach.

Sam didn't hear him.

Dean groaned, pulling himself a little further up, and hoping he didn't move the bandage. "I said, slow down, Sammy. We don't want to get a ticket."

Sam huffed. "I'm going the right speed."

Dean felt the car lose a couple MPH. He grinned up at the rearview mirror, going for comforting. "Just cool down a little. You're getting Cas in a state."

Which was true. The four-year-old was sitting with one of Dean's legs across his thighs. Dean had offered him the front seat, hoping he'd take it up and fall asleep beside Sam, but no such luck. Instead a bag of snack goods was sitting shotgun thanks to Dean's "you bleed on it, you own it" mentality.

Cassidy was alert, sitting stiff, gaze trained on Dean's shoulder, as if the arm might detach if he looked away for too long. But he was strangely silent, no twenty questions or tears, just staring.

Dean wished someone would turn on some friggin' music.

"I can't believe he found us," Sam finally sputtered, unable to hold it in any longer. Not that he'd done a great job of holding much of anything in when he'd found his brother bleeding against the coffee machine. Dean wasn't going to have to teach Cassidy too many more cuss words out of the Winchester manual. He'd already received a pretty decent education. "He's been following us all day and decided to act now? It doesn't make sense, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, he's a demon, not a Vulcan, so logic's not really his thing." Christ, had he just made a Star Trek reference? Dean was starting to regret taking the Lortab his brother had handed him. He shook the blurriness off. "My bet is he knows where we're headed."

Sam stiffened.

"He knows us," Dean said, not waiting for the inevitable question. "Means he probably knows about Bobby, too."

"Should we go somewhere else then? Lay low."

Dean shifted, pulling the pillow down a bit. "Bobby's," he insisted. "It's still safer at Bobby's. Place is a fort." He groaned when his shoulder hit the back of the seat. "Plus, I might need Bobby to get us some fresh antibiotics—I mean, a vending machine? Seriously? Could that prick have picked a dirtier weapon?"

Sam smirked up at the mirror. "Could have gotten you with a urinal."

"Dude. Don't even."

The tension was still there, but it was good to see a flash of Sam's pearly whites. Dean felt himself loosening up, surrendering to the meds and the shot of whiskey he'd managed before Sam had taken it from him. Cassidy must have noticed the change, because he moved for the first time in over twenty minutes.

Dean raised a brow when he saw the kid leaning out of his buckle, fingers reaching up to graze the sleeve of Dean's shirt. Cassidy pressed them there, staring up at Dean, his brow folded with concentration. His cheeks puffed out, as if he were holding his breath in anticipation. After a few seconds, he lost his intensity, his bottom lip poking out with a frustrated frown.

"It doesn't work," he complained, pulling his hand away. He huffed, and Dean figured he was mocking Sam with the move. "It's broken," Cassidy complained. "Why won't it fix?"

Dean snorted. "You can't do that anymore, buddy."

But he'd already lost Cassidy's attention. The boy leaned into his side, head against his ribs. It wasn't exactly comfortable, two people lounging in the tight space of the bench seat, but Dean was already nodding off, lulled away by the warmth beside him, the song of the Impala, the constant check from the rearview mirror.

Alive. Safe, for now. He couldn't ask for more. Dean let his eyes stay closed.

* * *

**End Notes**: Didn't say they were Cas' ouchies, did I? Ok, now for Bobby's place.


	8. Chapter 7: The Child Who would be God

**A/N:** There will be NO intentional Season 7 spoilers in this story (I know some of you haven't watched it). This is entirely AU after S6. Sorry for the long wait; life and original fiction deadlines cut me off from my chapter fics for a while.

In case you need a recap: last we saw the boys, Dean had just had his butt handed to him by the demon in Brother Aaron Matthew's body (and a vending machine). The guys are headed toward Bobby's place in hopes of finding out who their enemy is, how Cas lost his wings, and what they're supposed to do with the four-year-old Cassidy.

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Child Who Would Be God**

* * *

At noon, the Chevy rolled into Singer's Auto. They were hours early, even by the estimate Sam had given when he'd last rambled over the phone, spouting out a grocery list worth of supplies they wouldn't be able to pick up before their arrival. Yet, Bobby was waiting for them, outside, the sun light casting down on his ball cap and leaving a dark shadow over his face.

Dean couldn't read him, not in the distance, but he could tell the older hunter was watching with a sharp eye. Vigilance was a constant and a comfort. Took Dean another second to realize Bobby hadn't been waiting outside, eager as a yard dog—there were bags at his feet. He'd just gotten in from his own errands. Must have stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the car approaching.

The scratch at Dean's throat left him biting down a cough, a good enough excuse to stop his stare-down out the side window and find a bottle of water.

"You're awake." As if it were somehow a surprise.

"Guess you won't get to carry me in all princess-style after all, Sam." Dean smirked at the back of his brother's head. "Better luck next time."

Sam grumbled in reply but was already out of the car, headed toward Bobby and his pile of bags. Higher road and all that. Dean chuckled, then wished he hadn't shaken his back so much. White hot, the pain rolled all the way down his arm. So much for it going numb after a while.

The sigh was loud, intended purely to catch attention, and Dean could have sworn it belonged to Sammy, de-aged a good thirty years. "Grandma says cussing makes you sound stupid."

Dean jaw twitched. He bit off his initial response right before it could leave his mouth. Mainly because he'd almost brought up Sam's early morning vocabulary lesson on four-lettered words. Stupid higher road. "I wasn't _cussing."_

Cassidy, wide-eyed and messy-haired from his nap, was sitting against the opposite door, trying to work his buckle loose, and eying Dean. "You were gonna," he said. Insisted.

Dean rolled his eyes, pretended it, the fact that the kid was starting to be able to read him, didn't bother him. Pretended the comment was kiddie-intuition alone. "Yeah, yeah—you got me. Happy?"

Cassidy pursed his lips, putting some thought into the question. Dean decided it was best not to hear an answer. He reached over, clicked the buckle free. "Wait right there. Sam'll get you out."

Dean groaned, feeling the full ache of his early morning snack run as he eased himself out of the car and resisted the urge to scratch at the coffee burn across his stomach. One breath of relief was all he got.

"Always said that junk food would kill ya."

Dean followed the gravelly voice up to Bobby and rolled his eyes at the statement. He was half expecting a hug out of the old guy—sure, it had only been a few weeks since they'd stopped in—but the other hunter was keeping his distance, one hand scratching at the graying hair on his cheek, as if he were still trying to figure something out. None of the levity of a welcome remained on Bobby's face.

Sam returned from carrying in the bags but stopped as soon as his feet hit earth, raising a questioning brow from behind Bobby. Dean shrugged. _No, Sammy, I have no idea why Bobby looks like a con-worm crawled up his ass._ Judging from his sour expression, Sam could practically hear the sarcasm about to come out of Dean, so he stepped back down to the Impala, lips forced into a tight smile.

"Something wrong, Bobby?" He maneuvered into the man's line of sight, his voice lower, guarded from the audience still in the car. "Dean and I have already tested him, if that's what you're worried about. He's human. Or, you know, he is _now_."

"I figured," Bobby muttered, still frowning. "That ain't what's bothering me." He didn't give the two a chance to question the comment. Straightening the bill of his cap, he shot Dean a glance, as if he'd forgotten he was still there. "You gonna stand out here bleeding all over yourself? Get inside, boy. Let me have a look at that shoulder of yours."

Dean smirked, or at least tried to, and followed him. Sam caught his brother by the elbow. His voice was hushed, but the confusion was clear as ever.

"Think he's holding a grudge or something?"

"Hell if I know," Dean answered, "but I aim to find out."

* * *

The water's white froth jetted over Bobby's callused fingertips, stripping the stain of blood from his nails. He rubbed at his knuckles beneath the flow, taking far too long to clean up. Dean could tell the man was stalling, and he was getting kind of sick of staring at the back of his vest. Dean was patched up now, the urgency of the moment gone, fresh bandages lain across a canvas of bruises. Meds in his system. Now was time to move on to the talking part.

"So, you plan on telling me what that was all about?"

Bobby didn't feign ignorance. He twisted the faucet off and dried his hands on a towel, his frown deep when he turned. Still, he didn't seem ready to reply. "I wasn't trying to give the kid the cold shoulder," he finally said, and finished with a sigh. "Your brother's phone call this morning, it rattled me, I guess. . . You find this kid and it's not a day later you're nearly killed? This demon's carrying all the cards, and you don't even know what you did to piss him off? It's a lot to take in. Too much like old times."

Dean leaned forward in the kitchen chair, his elbows resting against the table, and shook his head in disbelief. "Are you kidding me, Bobby? Pissing uglies off is what we do best. I'm not an idiot—this isn't about the demon. This is about the kid."

Bobby snorted and took the seat across from him. "Wasn't calling you an idiot, son. You're not wrong. This isn't about the demon."

Dean licked at his lip, biting down the words, but it didn't seem to help. "You gonna say it then?"

Bobby raised a brow, amused. "Say what exactly? That Sam's upstairs reading a storybook to a guy who threatened to smite us last time we were in his company? That you're being awfully forgiving to someone who nearly melted your brother's brain? Something along those lines?"

"Doesn't matter right now, Bobby." Dean glared at his own fisted fingers. "I'm the first one to admit that Cas sunk his own damn boat. Made a bunch of dick decisions along the way, too. But, God…" He took a breath and forced himself to look up. "Remember when Rufus died all those years back? What I said about not letting the past get in the way? I meant it. Castiel screwed up, he did, and if he'd had a chance to stay on that path, I would have tried to take him down."

Dean paused, feeling the pulse in his throat pick up. As true as those words were, it was hard for him to separate the memory, years faded, of the angel from Cassidy. And the thought of having to kill a kid, that kid…Dean squashed the seed before it could take root.

"He wasn't alone in screwing up, either. There were things I should have done. Things that might have changed what happened." Dean raised a hand, stopped his friend, his second-father, from taking over from there. "And even if you still blame him, you can't take it out on that kid, Bobby."

"And what if somewhere down the line, Cassidy gets his wings back? Which version of Castiel do you think he's likely to be?" Bobby cut himself off with a bitter chuckle and took a seat. "Oh, hell, who am I kidding? That angel was always the same. Trying to save your asses, cost be damned. Just bit off more than he could chew the last go-around. Wonder who he learned that from."

Dean swiped a hand over his chin, holding back his grin. "Not a clue," he replied. "There's not going to be another God cos-play moment, though. I can promise you that." His eyes were darker when they lifted. "It won't happen because I won't let it. I messed up last time around."

"You tried to stop him. We all did."

Dean pushed his chair back. "I'm not saying I led him to the Dark Side. I'm saying I wasn't who I was supposed to be to him. I let that prick Crowley get under his skin. I let a friend fight a war without me."

Bobby bounced a palm off the table. "_This_ is exactly what I'm talking about, boy!"

"It's the truth." The words tasted sour. Dean scowled, swallowing them down. "It's the truth."

"I'm not arguing that, but I was there the last time, remember?" Bobby shook his head. "You considered what'll happen if you lose this kid? You were messed up when Cas made with the disappearing act. Cleaned out the damn liquor store for a year. Barely trusted your own family. You gonna tell me you'll take it better now that he's in miniature form?"

"Well, see, Bobby, that's an easy one." Dean pushed up from the table, making a move for the coffee pot. "We won't lose him."

"You don't always get a choice." But the old hunter' words were lost before they ever left his lips.

* * *

Days passed. Three. And no sign of the demon.

It was there, somewhere. They knew, had taken the proper precautions in anticipation. That didn't mean they had stayed inside, hid away behind ancient symbols, exorcisms ready on the tips of their tongues. They'd given the demon the chance to make his move, and he hadn't taken it. Not yet.

Dean knew why.

_"Boys, we gotta talk about that kid…"_

The name. Dean didn't know the demon's name yet, and to the chagrin of Bobby and Sam, he wasn't putting any effort into recalling it, either. It nudged at the back of his mind though, prodding him to consider what he hadn't been willing to admit. That, yeah, he knew a few too many dead folks who'd want him amongst their ranks. That maybe a couple names might have stood out on the list of torture souls from his time down under and their black smoke run-ins over the years. That there was one particular name that visited him nightly.

_"…Like he goes back and forth. One minute Cas is watching cartoons, the next he looks dazed. Confused. He knows..."_

_"… Hell, Sam, he knew my name, knew his way around my place, as soon as he got here. Then he asks me if I have Oreos and milk. Damned unnerving, is what it is…"_

Dean felt it building inside him, that stir-crazy urge to grab a gun, hit the front yard, and call the bastard demon out. Instead, he relaxed against the sofa cushions, pretending the buzzing in his ear was due to a blowfly and not his family's voices, hushed and pitched in an effort to stay low. These days, proper planning meant taking advantage of naptime.

"I wish I had a naptime," Dean noted.

The other two went quiet a moment.

"You been listening to a word we've said?" Bobby asked. He huffed when the answer he received was a raised brow. "Dean, I know you don't want to, but we can't just go on acting like the kid doesn't remember anything."

"Bobby's right."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's bits and pieces, Bobby. Nothing worth poking a stick at."

Sam plopped down beside his brother, that placating, tell-me-about-your-relationship-with-your-mother wrinkle already at his brow. "I know you're worried about him, but is this about you or Cas? Do you really think it would do any harm, just asking him if he remembers what happened when he fell?"

"He won't know."

Bobby snorted. "Yesterday, he asked me if he could play with my wheelchair. You know, the one I haven't used since the friggin' _Apocalypse_. He might not realize what it is he knows, but he knows things, Dean."

"Could you vague that up a little more, guru?" Dean shook his head. "I don't know why you two are so fixated on this anyway. Who gives a crap how he lost his mojo? He's here now. He's a little boy whose grandmother burned alive in front of him a few days ago. And I not going to start interrogating him about some past life he can't do anything about—"

Sam's hand on his good shoulder broke him off the tirade. "Dean, we wouldn't ask him if it wasn't important." His voice was soft, and Dean realized why a moment later, when he heard the sound of footsteps upstairs. Cassidy was awake. "The demon could have come straight for us. Our guard was down. But he used Cas to draw us in for a reason. Bobby can do all the research he wants, but this guy's name isn't going to pop out of some book for us. The demon's coming after us. All of us. It's personal for him. There's a chance Cas knows who he is, who he _really_ is. We're not going to find out unless we ask him."

* * *

Dean recalled the feeling of a knife cutting through him, claws ripping him open, needles weaving in and out. The sensation in his gut wasn't so different now, with Cassidy sitting on the floor across from him, asking that question for the second time.

"Did I do something wrong again?"

His blue eyes were wet already, but he didn't have the other warning signs of an approaching fit. No pouted lips, no trembles, no tiny swell of flesh between his eye brows. This wasn't frustration, but resolve.

His voice lost his strength. "I did something wrong," Cassidy concluded. The solidness of that tone was so familiar that Dean had to remind himself that it wasn't Castiel sitting there, cross-legged.

"You're not in trouble, buddy," Dean assured, and knew that wasn't quite the answer the kid was looking for. "But we need to talk about some stuff."

He glanced over his shoulder, eyed the entry to the kitchen, where Bobby and Sam were sitting at the table, pretending to go over some maps. For a split second, he thought about calling them in, but decided against it. He'd told them he'd be the one to try, the one to ask. Dean brought his attention back to the child sitting on the floor across from him, sheets of once-blank paper strewn between them, littered with rolling crayons.

Dean had gotten squat with a side of Jack. Then Cassidy had lost his will to color and asked that question. The one with a clear answer that Dean sure as hell was never going to give him.

"I just…" Dean forgot where he was going, where he'd already been, and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. "Cas, I just need you to think a minute. About the man who tried to hurt you. I know he looked like your preacher, like Brother Matthews, but he's not. I think you understand that, don't you? He's one of those monsters, like we talked about."

Cassidy nodded. "He hurt Grandma."

_Shit. _Dean frowned. He'd hoped, really hoped, that, for this particular chat, the kid would take on that edge of wisdom, age, the one that reminded him of Castiel. Instead, it was a four-year-old replying. A child. Dean wanted to throw-up a little. How many times had he called Cas a child back in the day? An infant in a trenchcoat? God had a sense of humor, wherever the hell he was.

"He did," Dean managed. "But he wanted to hurt you, too. And me and Sam."

"Can she come back?"

"What?"

"Can Grandma come back?"

_Double shit. _

The pout returned. Cassidy cocked his head, blinking. "You came back," he reasoned, before Dean could answer. Cassidy stood up, crumbled green crayon wax stuck to the knee of his pants, and stepped across the mess of coloring sheets.

"I'm sorry." It was the only card Dean had to play. He put it on the table. "I know it's not fair. I'm sorry, but she can't come back."

Dean stared at him, waiting for Cassidy to make the next move. He wasn't expecting the hug, but he got it anyway. A tackle that nearly threw him back, thin arms wrapped around his neck, chin pressed against the top of his shoulder, reminding him of the bandages caked on below the kid's weak grasp. It took the hunter another moment to realize the breathy sound close to his ear was crying. Dean reached around, awkwardly patting the kid on the back.

Cassidy hiccuped between the words: "I touched you, and you came back."

Dean absolutely did _not_ want to look behind him, see if his brother and Bobby were watching. He closed his eyes, chose to ignore their presence. Chose to ignore the fact that his arm was burning, that the skin beneath the sleeve, where Castiel had once reached down, grabbed hold of him, pulled him from the pit, was tender, throbbing. _'I touched you, and you came back_,' made a loop around his head again, '_...gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition._' He lifted the kid off of him so he could meet his eye.

"Cas, I know it's hard, but I need you to try to remember if—"

"The bad man said I touched him, too," Cas said, fast. He wiped two balled fists at his wide eyes, smudging the wet lines down his cheeks. His legs shook, ready to fall out from under him, but Dean held on to his arms, kept him in place. Steady. "I didn't mean to. I did it wrong. And I let go."

"What does that mean, Cas? What did you do wrong?"

But Cassidy's lip was trembling, fresh tears rolling down his face as he shifted and jerked, trying to pull away. Dean blinked up him, feeling that same knife-in-the-gut sharpness, and gripped his arms more tightly.

"Don't make me see it, Dean," Cassidy begged, his voice hoarse. Its volume grew, panic at its edges. "It's scary there. I don't want to go there again. Don't make me…"

Something dropped behind them. A book clapping against the wood flooring. Followed by a scramble to pick it up. The sound sent a shock up Dean's spine.

"Cas, it's okay," Dean said, cutting him off. "You don't have to remember it. You don't have to remember anything other than being Cassidy, you understand me?" Dean pressed the kid against his chest, leaving him there."You're Cassidy now, and you didn't do anything wrong."

* * *

**End Notes: **Somewhere out there, Canon Dean is flipping me the bird for giving him extra fluffy chick-fic moments. More action and answers in the next chapter, Canon Dean, I promise.


	9. Chapter 8: Out of the Garden

**A/N: **So, no new episode of SPN this week… Hmm, sounds like a good time to put out a chapter. Or maybe two. _(Haven't gotten around to editing this yet, so sorry if it's a little sloppy—I'll clean it up in a bit.)_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Out of the Garden**

* * *

Buttery and sweet, the smell hung over him, enticing him to open his eyes. Dean blinked awake, realizing he'd fallen asleep sitting up on the couch, head lolled to one side. He smacked his lips, swiping one hand against the corner of his mouth as fresh saliva erupted under his tongue. A growling pop in his stomach reminded him that he'd moved on to research-mode before eating his dessert last night.

Which had been time wasted. Bobby was right. The name he was looking for wasn't going to be found in a book.

Dean stood and stretched out his back, careful not to strain the stitchwork holding his rag-doll shoulder together. The ache was bone deep, a constant reminder. The skin beneath the bandage looked solid, glossy and hardening where the scar tissue was beginning to form in the muscle. Looks could be deceiving, and despite how mended it appeared, he knew better than to pull out Bobby's work of art a few days early. He'd trade nagging for a little physical hindrance any time.

Laughter erupted from the other room. It was burst of breathy giggles, and certainly didn't come from any of the men of the house. Dean leaned forward, peeking past the open entry into the kitchen. He paused before making another move, a small smile sliding onto his face

Cas stood beside the kitchen counter, hands over his mouth to hide the mock-surprise and amusement on his face as he laughed. His bright blue eyes were lifted, glued to Bobby Singer as if he were the funniest damn being in existence. It took Dean another second to figure out why. Bobby was holding an empty platter in one hand, an egg flipper in the other, and, at stomach height, the circular shape of a gooey, undercooked pancake was plastered to the front of his dingy, cotton shirt. One flip gone wrong.

"Oh, yeah, that's _real_ hilarious," Bobby griped, his tight, upturned lips betraying the gruff tone.

The pancake chose that moment fall off and hit the floor with a splat, setting Cas off again.

Bobby snorted. "I should make you eat that one, Chuckles. You think Sam and Dean'll want bananas in their batch, too?"

Dean raised a brow, sure he'd been spotted, but Bobby didn't call attention to him.

Cas gave a dizzying nod, his messy black hair flopping over his brow. Then he paused, bottom lip poking out. He shook his head, reconsidering the idea. "Just Sam," he reasoned, his voice pitched and lacking the somberness it had carried the night before. A child's voice. "I get Dean's bananas."

Bobby shook his head, his thoughts his own. "Do you, now? Double bananas sound like a two man job. You gonna help out?"

Cas hopped onto his toes to snatch the heavy ceramic platter and proceeded to hold it above his head with both hands, as if it weighed a good thirty pounds. Dean was fairly certain Bobby was begging for a bigger mess.

Dean felt a prickle at the back of his neck; a prying gaze he'd know anywhere. He quietly took a step backward, into the study, and saw Sam standing in the hallway. Bare feet, clean jeans, hair slicked back and wet from his morning shower, Sam gave his brother a little nod, and moved away. Dean took the hint and followed him out the front door, onto the porch. Gently, Dean shut the door behind them, not quite pulling it closed but cutting off the kitchen sounds.

"Looks like Bobby's starting to take to Cas," Dean noted.

The morning air was crisp but not uncomfortably so, and the South Dakota sun was still dancing over a horizon, not yet high in the sky but casting ribbons of orange over the blue. Dean took it in, knew the peace was only temporary, and tried to not notice the look in Sam's eyes.

"Yeah. Looks like." The levity of the words was forced, and Sam took a deep breath, letting it out with a slow huff. His hand moved up, fingers curled, as if he wished he had a beer to sip on, avoid whatever was supposed to leave his mouth next. "Dean, I'm _so _sorry."

"Sam—"

"Just let me finish, okay?" Sam reached up, letting his flat palm run over the top of his head. It came away glistening. So did his eyes. "We, _I_, shouldn't have asked you to talk to Cas about that stuff. I mean, if anyone knows how badly recalling the past can screw you up, it's me…And I asked anyway. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Dean moved into his line of sight. "There's nothing for you to apologize for, Sam. I had to try asking, eventually."

Sam raised both brows in question, then shook his head when Dean didn't back down from the statement. "That's crap, Dean. I know you. You'd never have brought it up to him if Bobby and I hadn't asked you to, demon or no demon."

"Yeah, well, doesn't really make a difference now. It's done. Didn't work. Didn't damage him too badly either. No harm, no foul." Dean cocked his head, cutting off his brother before he could try again. "You were listening in last night, right? You heard what he said?"

Sam nodded. "Cas, or Castiel, at least, knew the demon. From Hell. That's what he meant, isn't it?"

Dean rolled a kink out of his shoulder and winced, remembering the injury. "Yeah, but the words he used…"

"Touched." Sam frowned, and Dean could almost read the thoughts running over his eyes like newspaper headlines. "He said he touched him the way he touched you. Do you think… Do you think Castiel raised the demon? The same way he pulled you out of Hell?"

Dean shook his head. "Not exactly. Sam, I know you don't like to think about it, but back…back before you got your soul. Cas was the one to raise your body. Do you remember much about that?"

"My early Robo-Hunter days?" The joke was lost in his grimace. It was painful territory, and Dean automatically regretted bringing it up. Before he could take it back, though, Sam shrugged. "You know, I hadn't really thought about it. About how Cas was the one who pulled me out of the cage. Well, my body at least…But if you're looking for specifics on the process, it's kind of a blur. How about you? Do remember how it happened, the trip from Hell to the reverse-dirt-bath?"

Dean gnawed his bottom lip a moment, then grunted in frustration. "Not a whole hell of a lot, no pun intended. I mean, when I first got out, I didn't even remember what had happened. At all. Memories came back in pieces. Even now, it flashes from rack-fun to bright-friggin-light to coffin. I don't even know exactly how he left the burn on my arm…Did you—?"

Sam was already shaking his head, anticipating the question. "I hadn't thought about it at the time. Was kinda in a psychopathic frame of mind then. But, I didn't have a mark on me. Not like the one Cas left on you. Do you think it's because he didn't touch my soul?"

"Dude, that sounds so girly." But Dean shrugged. "Maybe."

Sam gave him a sideways glance. "Think that's maybe why you can feel him all the time, and I can't?"

"It's not all the—" Dean cut off, noticing the wide-eyed expression on Sam's face. He'd been caught. "Shit. Sam, I'm not even sure it's real. I mean, Cas is human—if there was any soul-branding crap between us, it was lost when he took the big fall."

"You had a vision, Dean. Through _the kid's_ point of view. Did you think I didn't piece that together?"

"What, you want a cookie or something?"

Sam's cheek twitched. "Was the vision the first time you've ever… connected?"

"Do you really have to phrase it like that?" Dean studied the salvage yard, taking in the graveyard of bits and pieces, rust and rubber. Sam grabbed his good shoulder, yanking his attention back to the present.

"It's not, is it?" Sam stepped over the line, into panic, but his voice remained low, cautious of the others, just a door away. "That kid's four years old—how many times has this happened?"

"For God's sake, Sammy, I'd never had a 'vision' or anything, alright. It was just some, you know, weird feelings." Dean watched the worry on his brother's face devolve into curiosity and sighed. He wasn't letting up. "Like…Like I'd feel afraid or happy over something for no reason. Or I'd think my heart was racing, but take my pulse and realize it was fine. The worst one, the first one, was just months after Crowley's lab blew. It was this intense moment of panic. You were at the store, and I was freaking the hell out over nothing…Kinda lines up with when Cassidy was born, and I gotta tell ya, Sam, grown men aren't meant to experience childbirth from any vantage point. But, Sam, I would have told you if I thought for a second it was real and not all in my head."

"You should have told me anyway." The muttered accusation didn't have any heart behind it. Sam took a moment, rolling the information around. Dean could tell he wanted to snap about 'keeping secrets' and 'being in the loop' and 'big fat hypocrites'. But Sam kept quiet instead. Finally, he rested his arms across his chest. "Alright then," he said, louder.

Dean frowned. "Alright then?"

Sam let his eyes roam the salvage yard. "Well, what do you want me to say? There's nothing we can do about it, right? But, man, this leaves us with a pretty significant problem."

"You'll have to specify. It's been one of those weeks."

"If the reason why you can connect with Cas like that is because he 'touched' you…"

Dean's eyes widened in realization. "Shit."

Sam nodded. "Then that means the demon is just as connected to Cas. Cas won't be safe, not anywhere, until we find this thing and kill it. And, even then, you'll still be—"

Dean cut him off. "That's the plan, anyway." He added a smirk for good measure. "Which means the kid's going to be sticking with us, though, for a while. Has it hit you, yet? What we're really doing here?"

Sam grinned back. "You mean the part where we've been saddled with a four-year-old who once drank a liquor store and helped stop the Apocalypse? No, I think that's still sinking in for me."

* * *

Bobby Singer. The last member of the small family the Winchester boys had made for themselves.

The demon had considered dropping in on the old man, if only for the small role he'd played, still played, in the brothers' lives, but there was no need. The heavy black monster of a car had found its way to the salvage yard all on its own, lining all of his damaged ducks in a row.

Aaron's grin stretched wide, painfully so. He couldn't have asked for more from the men. So predictable, each and every one of them. So drawn together, closer than family.

"You're going to die bloody." The words slipped out, on their own, and gave the demon pause. He'd forgotten, for a moment, that he still had a mouth to use, Aaron Matthew's mouth. Satisfied with the sound of the threat, and certain his prey couldn't hear him in the distance, he spoke them again, louder. "You're going to die bloody. Each and every one of you."

The wards keeping him out were pitiful. Child's play. Not the best that Bobby Singer had to offer. But there were more inside, more meant to capture the thick-headed and overly eager. Further proof that the older hunter still didn't know his name. His purpose. How long he'd waited.

He could be patient. Had been patient. But, now, watching those brothers, knowing their intent, he felt the time for waiting was at an end. Aaron saw Dean's gaze venture out, so close and so far, never quite noticing the hidden danger. Here was the man broken, made whole again. But his cracks still showed, and Aaron hoped to find them all.

"You know now, don't you, Dean? You_ know_."

* * *

Dean slid into the driver's seat of the Impala. The cushion molded to meet his body, fitting him neatly, like a worn glove. His shape, his scent, his sweat, his blood; all of it found a home here, between glass and metal walls. He leaned back, no keys in hand, and simply stared out the front windshield, watching the harsh yellow fade of day into evening.

"You're not supposed to sneak around by yourself," he said, eyes darting up, catching the movement in the back through the rearview mirror. He cleared the roughness from his voice with a cough. "It's dangerous."

There was no answer for a moment. Then the blanket draped over the back seat dropped down to the floor, a small body pushing itself up into a sitting position.

Cas rubbed the back of his hand over the damp tip of his nose. He blinked, confused, as if he'd been roused from a nap. Which maybe he had. Dean rolled his eyes at the thought, then remembered that this was a four-year-old, and when he was four, he'd thought home wasn't dangerous. Until it was.

"Feels safe here," Cas answered.

Feels safe. Dean could understand that, and it brought a small smile to his face. Despite the bad memories, the knowledge that there wasn't such a thing as 'safe', he understood the sentiment.

Over the past four days, since they'd rolled into Bobby's a few pints of blood low and exhausted, Dean had watched Cas like a hawk, seen the way the kid liked to study the "really fast car" through the front hall window. So, when the boy had wandered outside while Dean was sorting through his tools, three hunters had been paying careful mind. Dean had given him half an hour to himself, playing inside the car, unknowingly guarded, before making a move.

"Bobby's got your bath running, kid. Time to go inside." Dean watched the pout form. "But tomorrow, I need to give the car a tune-up before she starts coughin'. You want to help?"

Cas' eyes widened. "Is she sick?"

Dean snorted. "Dude, she's been through worse. You know th—" He bit his lip. _No_. This Cas _didn't_ know how many times the car had been totaled. "She'll be fine. Just needs some plugs replaced. I'll show you how to do it, for when you're, you know, taller."

"_Me?"_

"Is there anyone else in the car? Yeah, you, shorty. That's if you get ready for bed on time tonight."

The widened eyes remained, but a smile slowly joined them. Cas slid off the seat, struggling to open the door. When he succeeded, he hopped down onto the gravel, intent on making a dead run for the house. Dean slid out to join him, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Cas wasn't beside the car, or in front of it. Dean didn't have to turn a full circle. The hairs on the back of his neck stood in warning, pointing out the direction of the danger. Dean saw the knife first, the kid second, and the demon last.

"What do you think, Dean? Do fallen angels go to Heaven when they die?"

This was a mockery of the young pastor Dean had met less than a week ago. The bright smile, the one Brother Aaron Matthews had worn when he'd spoken of his Church's youth, was plastered on his face, just as welcoming and reminiscent as ever. His shoulders loose, nonthreatening, casual, if Dean's eyes stayed level, instead of traveling down those arms to find the hands. One held the child's mouth shut, palm wide enough to cup his chin in a bruising vice. Fingernails dug into a plump, ruddy cheek. The other hand hand held the knife. It was no more than a kitchen utensil, but sharp. Its tip was pressed beneath the hinge of Cas' jaw, ready to lodge itself up into his brain.

Dean could taste threats on his tongue, bitter promises, broken pleas. None of them actually left his mouth.

"You'd think I'd know, wouldn't you? I mean, I…I'm _well _acquainted with angels." Aaron tilted his head, as if considering his own words. He took another step, Cas whimpering when the demon's knees pushed him forward, too. "Bet there's a lot to be learned from them when they're in such soft packages. Bet you can carve out any answer you want when they're like this."

"You want to hurt me?" Dean bit. "I'm right here. That kid's got nothing to do with this." Dean wasn't sure if that was a lie, but he knew, just from the look on Aaron's face, who was at the top of the demon's list. "I'm the one you're after."

Aaron huffed out a breathy chuckle. "Oh, you're right. You're the one I blame. I plan on ripping you apart, and putting you back together again. Rinse and repeat." He paused, pursing his lips. "The others, they've got to take their licks, too. Sam. Castiel. Bobby, too, if I can squeeze the old guy in. Trust me, my list is long. But, yeah, I'm petty. I'd feel accomplished if I just checked you off. _Only_, Winchesters don't hurt like other people. Slice and dice, and they keep on grinnin'…But it's when you cut to the heart—that's when a Winchester flinches."

As if to drive the notion home, he pressed the blade harder, letting the tip slide past the skin, draw a bead of blood. Cas' breathing quickened. Dean could feel it in his chest: fear. It hurt. It hurt. Dean wanted to say something, anything, to calm the kid down, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Family, right? That's always been your weakness." Aaron's face twitched, losing its easy gloat. Rage peaked out through oil black eyes and thin lips. "Except, not just anyone gets to be family, do they, Dean? Somehow…Somehow, this little shit has wormed his way into the secret Winchester circle. You hear all kinds of things in Hell—you know what gossips tortured souls can be. Guess what I heard? This would-be angel, you called him brother. And now, you've chosen him again, after all he did wrong, you've chosen him. Just like you chose Sam—even though Sam had already had his moment, his chance to turn back. Even though Sam had made the leap of his own free will. You _still_ chose him."

The sweat dripping down his temples somehow chilled him to the bone. Dean let out a stuttered breath, jaw clenched to hold the sound of that gasp inside. This wasn't Cas. This wasn't a child's fear. This was a man's fear. A guilty man's fear.

Aaron licked his bottom lip, as if he could taste it. "You know my name. Say it!"

Dean couldn't open his mouth.

"Say it," Aaron repeated, his voice calmer, his anger pressed down, smoldering like embers beneath the surface. "Say it, or I'll skin Castiel alive, right in front of you."

Dean heard it, just in the distance, the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming to the front door of the house, not twenty yards away. But they wouldn't make it in time. A demon could move a blade fast.

"Adam." Dean blinked the sting out of his eyes. "Adam."

What had it been, seven years? Eight? He could see it still, that look of horror on his half brother's face when the angel Michael descended. That pleading expression: _save me. _Dean promised himself he'd get the kid back, find a way. Find a way to get back the last, untainted piece of his bloodline. But, instead, he watched, a spectator in the stands, the moment long since over. Watched both his brothers fall into the pit. Into eternal damnation.

Adam was never meant for Hell. Adam had been in Heaven. Was pulled from it do Dean's job. But Hell was where he'd ended up. And Hell was where Dean had left him.

Dean had made the choice, had made his deal with Death…

_"Sam's soul is stuck in that box."_

_"I've heard."_

_"And our other brother is trapped in there, too. Michael rode him in." _

_"Dean, quit shuffling and deal."_

_"I want you to get 'em both out."_

_"Hmm." Dean had known right then what it would come to, but Death's words still came at him like a slap across the face: "Pick one."_

_"What?"_

_"Sam's soul or Adam's."_

Death had given the option. To have even that was more than Dean could have hoped for. Dean's answer had come quickly, too quickly. He wasn't sure what he was more ashamed of, the fact that he'd chosen at all, or the fact that he didn't regret the choice a single second since.

"Thought it would be easier to forget about me, didn't you?"

"I never forgot." Dean swallowed it down. "Adam, I'm…"

"Sorry?" Aaron's face…no, Adam's. The meat he was wearing couldn't hide his expressions that well. Adam's face twisted, livid and excited. "Sorry doesn't fix things, Dean. But don't worry, you'll get what's coming to you soon enough." He raised the hand holding Cas' mouth closed, putting his palm out. Dean knew what came next. "This is going to hurt, big brother."

A flick of the wrist and Dean was flying back, the air whistling past his ears, and, in it, his own name, being shouted in a familiar voice. Castiel. No, Cassidy. A child, screaming. _Sam and Bobby aren't going to make it in time_—and his body collided with metal.

* * *

**End Notes: **Yes, I know several of you guessed the identity of the demon early on, but I didn't want to say anything, as to not ruin it for others, so, big shoutouts to BetahimeTsukiko, Cendrekai, Apollo199199, Illucida, Iryann and to anyone else I might have left out… As for the "how" and the "why," there are only a few more chapters of this tale left, so stick around and find out. I promise answers. ;) The dialogue between Dean and Death was from season 6's "Appointment in Samarra."


End file.
